


Sayuri

by silvercistern



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Heist, Bipolar Disorder, Ensemble Cast, I know Ushijima isn't a bad guy but somebody had to be the antagonist, Multi, PTSD, casino robbing?, everyone gets their day in the sun I promise, loosely based on Ocean's 11, moderate descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-05-20 22:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 65,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6027442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvercistern/pseuds/silvercistern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Released from prison after five years, Oikawa Tooru is greeted by a world that he barely recognizes. His career is over, his family's splintered, the love of his life is in the arms of his worst enemy, and all of his go-to hair products have been discontinued. </p><p>On the positive side, Japan has legalized gambling while he was away. Which is convenient, since he’s at the point where he can’t get any lower. </p><p>Time to get the gang back together and rob the most luxurious casino in Tokyo. </p><p>Here, have a heist AU. </p><p>~discontinued~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wow, you look rough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone in this story is a criminal. do not expect them to behave. however they will be called out on any gender-based slurs in this chapter.

_Fuchu Prison, Tokyo Prefecture. 10 am._

 

The monochrome room was dimly lit, with a single beam of light pointed at the face of a man kneeling in seiza. Or pointed where his face would be if he were looking up. As it was his chin was tucked to his chest as though he wanted to melt into the floor. Dressed in a grey jumpsuit stretched taught over his broad shoulders he almost blended into the rest of the room. But not quite. 

“Please state your name and age for our records,” droned a voice behind the light. The request was filled with so little interest it was hard to say why it was asked at all. It was obvious that they already knew the answer.

The man lifted his face, horn-rimmed glasses catching in the glare for an instant before his head was lowered again.

“Oikawa Tooru,” he muttered. “Age… I guess it’d be 31, now. I think.”

“Occupation?”

“Well,” he lightly chuckled. “I’ve been in prison for the past five years. I suppose I would be classified as a convict.”

As he spoke, his soft voice grew in volume, rolling into something that could have been rich and expressive if it weren't so hoarse. It was striking all the same. The sound was out of place in such a drab space, where even the most minimal expression was forbidden.

The voice behind the light was not pleased.

“Before your incarceration, Oikawa-san. If you do not fully cooperate, your sentence will be extended for six more months, per regulation 1274.6.1.”

“Professional volleyball player,” he returned flatly, quietly. All expression was thoroughly crushed.

“Do you intend to continue this career?”

“No.” The single word fell to the floor, leaden and unmoving. 

“Your reasoning?”

“My career ended prior to my incarceration,” it was almost a whisper. “I was… exploring other options when I was arrested.”

“Under what circumstances did it end?” The voice asked with poorly concealed curiosity. Or suspicion. Both, probably, though it would be easier to tell if a face were visible.

“I blew out my knee,” he sighed softly, though the sound seemed to curl through the room. “Now I’m too old. I couldn’t play at that level, even if I wanted to. You can look it up if you want. I was a pretty big deal nationally. My injury is well documented. A tragic loss to Japanese athletics, really.”

The sound of fingers on a keyboard chopping into the silence indicated that they were doing just that.

“It’ll be faster if you add the name ‘Ushijima’ to your search,” he offered.

 

The questioning resumed after several minutes, during which the examiner had no doubt plumbed the depths of whatever parts of his personal life that were publicly available. “Describe your crime for us, Oikawa-san,”

He pursed his lips and let out a shuddering exhale.

“I robbed a medical facility.”

“Can you explain to us the circumstances which led you to do such a thing?”

The man curled into himself almost imperceptibly.

“Stealing from a hospital is particularly antisocial behavior,” the voice added, almost dryly. “It will be more difficult to secure you a short, flexible parole if we believe you are in any way a menace to the nation. We may have to place you in a halfway house, as opposed to the friends you requested.”

“I didn’t steal any money. I didn’t steal large amounts of medications or supplies,” he exhaled again, this time in an obvious effort to calm down. “I stole a syringe and a single dose of a treatment for my own knee. I wasn’t a menace of any sort.”

“Then what were you, Oikawa-san?”

Another shuddering breath.

“Heartbroken.”

The voice went on at a steady clip, unaffected. “Oikawa-san, despite claims throughout your trial that you worked alone during this incident, police reports suggest a very low probability that a single individual could have pulled off such a theft, especially someone recovering from a knee injury. It would have required a flawless execution.”

A beat of silence expanded through the room. And then, almost imperceptibly, the atmosphere shifted. The division of power in the room was, for once, fifty-fifty, as it sometimes is when a hostage holds something his captors cannot have, not matter how hard they try.

The voice, it seemed, felt the change. It tried a softer approach, “With that in mind, if we knew who else was involved, perhaps we could negotiate your parole to be something... less restrictive…”

The prisoner sat back on his calves and lifted his face, ignoring the light and the potential disrespect and everything else that was likely to send him back to a cold cell too short for his legs with nowhere to sit and no one to talk to.

Not that they’d been allowed to talk.

“I’ll have you know,” Oikawa Tooru tossed his head, flipping his lank fringe out of his eyes, and scattering the dust motes in a whirl of sparkling light, “that I’ve been called flawless on a number of occasions.”

 

**Twelve hours later.**

 

_A seedy izakaya on the outskirts of Tokyo. 11 pm._

 

He spent his first evening of freedom alone, at a bar he’d never heard of. All of his luggage, literally a pile of boxes, was sitting by the entrance gathering mild interest from whoever came through the door. And then they were ignored. No one seemed to care about their surroundings. The atmosphere was noisy enough for easy privacy, not so chaotic as to give him a panic attack. The air reeked of sake and kushiyaki. Two things he'd dreamed about for weeks.

Now the smell turned Oikawa’s stomach.

That was how it was with things you dreamt about, though. If you dreamt about them enough, if they managed to come true they rarely met expectations. He’d known that all too well before he ever went to prison, but now it was like the universe wanted to punch him in the face with the information over and over.

Most of the bar’s inhabitants were salarymen. They wore ill-fitting suits and were trying to out perform each other in utterly pointless ways. He counted four men cheating on their wives, one pair who were having an illicit affair with each other, and one who was sloppily picking the pockets of nearly every member of his party. Petty theft, _any_ theft was inconceivable. None of them would expect it. The guy had probably spent time abroad to even think of doing such a thing.

Oikawa watched him with disdain. Then the man looked up and made eye contact. Realizing that he’d been spotted, he panicked like an animal caught in a flashlight beam, staring with wide eyes before dashing off, not so much as bothering to take his coat. 

Amateur.

But then, he was free, and for the next six months Oikawa had to speak to his parole supervisor every evening or he would be immediately thrown into prison. Again.

He lowered his head, looking down at the jeans his sister had left with him along with his other belongings. He’d changed into them in a bus station bathroom. They were from his last year of high school, when he had been at his slimmest, and they still had to be held up with a belt. He wondered what kind of state his old room was in, or if it even existed. Where had the boxes labeled with a single character, not even his whole name, been sitting all this time?

He stared at his beer instead of thinking about it.

“Wow, you look rough.”

At the sound of someone addressing him, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. His first instinct was to keep his head down. Don’t make trouble, don’t disobey. He could not handle another second in a processing cell, never mind the solitary confinement that came after. Not worth his pride. Not anymore.

He took a deep breath, and then another, feeling his heartbeat in his ears.

As his pulse calmed he remembered the sound of that specific voice, and why he was in this place to begin with. He looked up, trying to control the trembling in his arms and the urge to bow or just melt into the wall behind him.

Two men stood across the table. One had pale strawberry blonde hair, almost pink, the other was tall and dark. Both had heavy-lidded eyes that were made for mockery. They were holding hands.

“Makki… Mattsun…” he croaked, too softly for them to hear. Thankfully, because he didn’t want the only two people who seemed to give a rat’s ass about him to know it was possible for his voice to sound so pathetic.

Oikawa looked back down at his glass out of sheer habit.

The one kind person in recent memory, the release counselor who spoke to him right before he was discharged to his sister, had told him that it was going to be like this. Post traumatic stress disorder. That he’d have a hard time adjusting to being social again after the draconian eternal silence that was part of prison regulations.

It was a ridiculous idea. Him, _the_ Oikawa Tooru having difficulty adjusting to social situations! Iwa-cha... _Iwaizumi_ would've found such a thing hilarious. Then again it seemed unlikely he’d ever get the chance to find out.

At least there was a bright side to the likelihood they’d never speak again. 

“To be honest, you’ve looked worse,” Makki said, settling down across from him at the table and pulling Oikawa out of his thoughts and into the moment with just the tone of his voice. The mocking derision was the homiest thing that Oikawa had experienced in years. He wanted to cry, so he pretended to pout.

Remarkably, it was a skill he’d not forgotten.

“Yeah,” Mattsun snorted as he sat down, “like that one time, when we had to get up at, what was it…?”

“It was three,” in the reflection on the table’s polished wood Oikawa could see Makki turning to Mattsun and shaking his head in disappointment, “Why can’t you remember these important pointless details?”

They were the same. Finishing each other’s sentences, dry humor bouncing back and forth so quickly it was difficult to keep up. Or, for that matter, notice they were joking. Makki’s hairline was a little higher, and the shadows under Mattsun’s eyes were a shade darker, but that was it. Oikawa didn’t know how to feel about it. Happy? Sad? Relieved? Angry?

Jealous.

“Yeah,” Mattsun scratched his head in thought. He seemed to have become pretty forgetful, “three to get the bus to… where was it?”

“You’re the consummate storyteller,” Makki rolled his eyes. “It was to Saitama.”

 “Yeah, well, you looked worse that day Oikawa,” Mattsun continued, unfazed. “But you still look like shit now. Historical roughness doesn’t excuse this current state, believe me.”

“No question, it does not.”

Oikawa looked up at his friends over the edge of his glass. “Makki, Mattsun, I’m glad to hear that my ‘released from prison’ face is better than my ‘I have undiagnosed mononucleosis’ face. Really, I am, because out of all the things on my mind right now: my mother’s death, not being allowed to see my nieces and nephews, the love of my life, who just so happens to be my best friend refusing to speak to me, having no job or prospects of any kind…”

Their faces were inscrutable.

“Out of all of those things,” Oikawa paused to take a gulp of beer, “the fact that I can’t find the right product for my hair is the _real_ concern.”

“Glad to hear you’re taking this seriously,” Mattsun nodded slowly before waving over the waitress and asking for two of what Oikawa was having.

Makki ripped Oikawa’s beer out of his poor, prison-scarred hands and took a sip of it, “Definitely. I mean, we’ll let it slide this time, but we can’t be seen with you like this. It’s going to sour our reputations as gorgeous man-magnets.”

“Aren’t you… married? To each other?” Oikawa inquired with lazy condemnation, loftily adding, “Of course that happened while I was in jail so I don’t even know, I’m probably calling you by the wrong names.”

“Just because we’re married doesn’t mean we don’t still have standards,” Mattsun shrugged. “And we kept our family names. Well, except for legal things, because apparently the government of Japan can't handle how progressive we are.”

“But...” Makki added, "for the record, Issei lost at rock paper scissors, so ‘Hanamaki's’ on his driver's license. The clerk thought it was _hilarious_."

This set off a flood of bickering

Oikawa smiled beatifically over their argument, but deflated considerably as the implications of missing their wedding in particular sunk in. He gasped in horror.

"I can't believe it!"

Makki took his hand off of Mattsun’s jaw, where he'd been trying to make him talk, and both of them stared.

“I would have made such a good speech!” Oikawa groaned into the table just as the very confused waitress returned with two more beers. He continued his dying whale impression for much too long before shooting up and demanding:

“Who gave it anyway?”

Makki brought his glass to his face without any intention to drink, while Mattsun just stared from under his eyelids.

“Don’t tell me…” Oikawa groaned, “ _He_ was your best man?”

The two men each took a long sip. Because they were terrible traitors with no shame.

“We were and are still friends with him, Oikawa,” Mattsun smacked his lips.

“In fact,” Makki set his glass down heavily, “if we had to pick, we’d probably be Team Hot Arms. Since _you’re_ the one who broke _his_ heart and got sent to jail.”

“Yeah,” Mattsun grunted, “so making us choose isn’t in your best interests.”

“How many times did he say ‘um’?” Oikawa leaned onto the table and into their faces, deranged grin lifting his cheeks. “Just give me a rough estimate.”

“Damned if I know, we were already wasted,” Mattsun shrugged, “I don’t even remember my own vows.”

“Good,” his husband said, “because they were incoherent.”

Mattsun shrugged, not seeming too concerned. “Probably not the best idea to ask a lovelorn guy with anger issues to give a speech at a wedding, though,” he reflected, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling.

“Yeah, my mom asked if he needed any dinners sent along.”

“All my single cousins hit on him out of sheer sympathy. Even Sakura, and she’s well past fifty.”  

Oikawa put his fingers against his temples and hissed, “Can we please not talk about _poor, brokenhearted_ _Iwaizumi_?”

The joking stopped and he found himself with his hands frozen in midair, cowing under the intensity of their combined stares.

“You called him ‘ _Iwaizumi_ ,’” Mattsun was stunned.

Makki reached forward and touched Oikawa’s hand apologetically, which, for him, was about the same as a full body hug, “We were just trying to give you a hard time, man. We didn’t realize you weren’t over the-”

“I don’t think you can get over _anything_ in prison,” Oikawa spat out. His voice was raw and dark. “I’d rather have starved to death in the Gulag. At least maybe then I’d have been able to speak to another human being with my last breath.”

Mattsun and Makki looked at the ground. And then at each other. And then at the ground again. And Oikawa reminded himself that these were the people who were willing to put him up, to sign a million forms committing themselves to who knew what, and to be held accountable to his extremely passionate volunteer parole supervisor. They were people who had opened their home to him when his sister, his whole family, refused to have anything to do with him ever again.

These were his _friends_.

He sighed and waved dismissively, “Whatever. Since you’ve brought him up, tell me what ol’ ‘Hot Arms’ is doing these days.”

“Well first of all, those air quotes were unnecessary,” Makki deadpanned. “The arms are still hot.”

“Best in the game,” Mattsun agreed with a sharp nod.

“Just tell me,” Oikawa waved the waitress over for another drink.

“Okay, well, just like you’d expect…” Mattsun began. And there really was only one thing that Oikawa expected. Or dreaded, more like. But it was all the same, just a matter of perspective.

“Of _course_ he’d be married,” he sighed dramatically before any actual information was delivered. "Now that it's legal you’re all just falling all over yourselves to give up your names and independent property rights..."

“No.” Mattsun rolled his eyes, then paused to think. "Well, he’s not _exactly_ single anymore, but not married either. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about his relationship status, I was talking about his _work_. He’s got a really fancy job. Curator of…um… what was it again?”

Makki read off of his phone, “The Suguru Igarashi Insect Collection.”

“At the University of Tokyo Museum,” Mattsun finished. “I knew that part.”

Oikawa felt immediate and instinctive excitement, because of course he’d get a job like that, a really _good_ job at the highest ranked university in the country. But after the initial wave of exhilaration he reminded himself that this was the guy who’d broken up with him five minutes before the prison guards dragged him to his cell. Maybe he didn’t deserve that job after all.    

“So, yeah,” Makki said, breaking Oikawa’s concentration, “as you no doubt expected, Iwaizumi’s become a butterfly librarian.” He didn’t even look up, just kept flipping through something on his phone.

The same place he’d gotten the name of…

“Makki-chan, is that his Facebook?” Oikawa sat up straight. He didn’t want to see it, it would be terrible for him to see it, it was such an awful idea but he most certainly was going to look.

Makki turned off his screen and put the phone into his pocket, “Uh. No. Definitely not.”

“Just let me see for one minute. Thirty seconds… Maaakkiiii…” Oikawa whined, trying to reach across the table and into his friend’s jacket.

“Ah, there’s the Oikawa we know and love,” Mattsun said fondly. “Not even out of prison a day, and already back to his natural state of ‘fourteen-year-old girl.’”

“We missed you so much, Tooru-chan,” Makki sniffed, holding Oikawa at an arm’s length as he continued to struggle.

Oikawa sat back down with a huff, crossing his arms and pursing his lips in the sort of performative petulance that he’d almost forgotten existed.

“Well that’s just _wonderful_ ,” he exhaled, “that he’s a… did you say ‘butterfly librarian’?”

“The… _whatever_ collection,” Mattsun waved his hand vaguely, “is made up of butterflies. And he… organizes them, kind of like in a library? Maybe? I’m a fucking accountant, don’t ask me how other jobs work.”

“That’s where he ran into Ushijima,” Makki said flatly, quite aware of the flash of fire in Oikawa’s eyes at the name. “Might as well just tell you. He’s the… not single part.”

Oikawa’s silence had always been a rarity at social occasions, and its presence conveyed his shock well enough.

“He’s a museum donor. I guess the guy really likes bugs,” Mattsun shrugged. “They started talking, I dunno, maybe three years after you….” he trailed off, looking nervous.

“…were _incarcerated_ ,” Oikawa trilled.

Because who gave a shit about anything anymore? His… _person_ was in the arms of his worst enemy! No big deal! Not a problem! Everything was absolutely fine!

“Please, don’t be delicate on my account," he continued in a blissful voice, "It’s not as though I just forgot I was in _prison_.”

The corner of Mattsun’s normally expressionless mouth twitched once. Then twice. Makki’s fingers, wrapped around his glass, started to shake. Oikawa felt a fluttering in his chest. A sensation that he’d kind of forgotten. It started in his throat, a rough high-pitched sound, like a slowly deflating balloon. And then his lips were trembling and the noise tumbled out, unfolding into a beautiful, authentic bark of laughter.

Immediately Mattsun’s mouth curled up, until there were _dimples_ and then he was snickering. Makki bent over, shoulders shaking. The sight of them laughing together, laughing with him for once, made Oikawa’s single laugh multiply, until he was weeping, and shaking and barely able to stay in his seat with the absurdity and hilarity and utter _ridiculousness_ of all of this pain happening at once.

He could not remember the last time he’d really laughed. It was hard, how something could feel so good and so terrible at the same time. But these kind of hysterics weren’t sustainable, and eventually they died out with a muttering of coughs and sighs and whined exhales.  And the three of them were left looking at each other uncomfortably, not quite sure what to say.

But Oikawa could never just leave an awkward silence. Especially when there was the chance to sabotage himself further.

“And they’re…” he ran his finger around the rim of his glass, “living together?”

Makki didn’t seem sure. “I don’t think that Iwaizumi moved in. That said, he’s there a lot. I see him pretty often when I’m on shift, cause, oh yeah, in case you spared a moment to wonder about _my_ life at all, I’m a pit manager at a casino that Ushijima _owns_.”

Oikawa’s eyebrows lifted over the rims of his glasses, “Ushijima… owns a casino?”

“He’s fucking rich,” Makki rolled his eyes, frustrated. “I guess his family always has been, but after the…” his voice trailed off

“Oh, shit,” Mattsun eyes grew big.

Oikawa knew without having to ask. The bastard had taken the team and won without him. Good. Fine. Stupid Tobio-chan deserved it at least. He’d probably cried, which would have been funny to see.

“Just tell me, Makki-chan,” he sighed impatiently. “Also, casino? Since when does anyone but the yakuza deal with gambling? Since when is it _legal_?”

Makki sighed, “The national team won real dramatically last Olympics. It was a big deal, and the whole world sort of fell in love with Ushijima somehow. Endorsement deals, commercials, all that stuff. Outside of Asia, too. Like, America, the UK… even though the guy can’t speak more than five words of English. That’s not enough to build a whole fucking hotel in Tokyo, but he got more somehow.”

“When the Integrated Resort Enabling Act passed and casinos were legal, he just popped up out of nowhere and built the first, best one. No way that was above board. But he’s got this genius casino manager. Issei thinks he’s covering up whatever illicit shit they had to do to get the place up so quick. The guy’s really good, no way I’d be able to figure it out. The yakuza sure hasn’t.”

“Fucker looks like a youkai though,” Mattsun muttered.

So Ushiwaka was rich now. The Olympics had been more or less a given, with Tobio there. But now, on top of everything else, Ushijima was rich, and he was using that wealth to buy… people’s affections. Oikawa felt rage settle into his bones.

“Are you telling me that Iwa-ch… Iwaizumi is a _kept man_?”

“This isn’t the Showa period, so no.”

“Also he has a job. Which we literally just told you about.”

Oikawa was not convinced. “Gallivanting with a rich guy who he _doesn’t love_ in his brand new casino is just that,” he insisted.

“Well, I don’t know anything specific about Iwaizumi’s romantic feelings,” Makki poked his finger at a small puddle of condensation on the table, “but you can go call him a ‘kept man’ yourself and see just how many broken bones you can get in one sitting.”

“I thought better of you, Iwa…” Oikawa caught himself mid-mutter, “zumi.”

“Look, you’ll get no complaints from us,” Mattsun said lazily, “we don’t like Ushijima any more than you do.”

“I very much doubt that’s possible,” Oikawa gritted his teeth.

“He’s my boss,” Makki leaned forward, “and let me tell you, that man is a…”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Mattsun interrupted, “and it’s going make me angry.”

“Well, tough, because I’m going to say it anyway, there’s no other word to describe him.”

“Alright then, we’re going to have a fight in five to ten seconds.”

“Ushijima’s a _cunt_ , Oikawa.”

His husband smacked the back of his head viciously.

“Takahiro, the fact that you’re a gay man does not mean you can just use words like that whenever you want.”

“What, you want me to call him a dick then?” Makki threw his hands in the air. “It doesn’t have the same bite. How about a dick _and_ a cunt? Together. Would that be okay?”

“That would be a baby, eventually,” Mattsun was impressively unmoved.

“Alright then, Oikawa,” Makki turned to him, looking angrier than he’d ever seen him, “Ushijima is a _human baby_ , and I’ve had it up to here with him,” he raised his hand very far over his head. “He wants me to manage the pit to his exacting specifications? Sure, I’ll manage his pit, but it’s a space occupied by humans. It’s not going to run as efficiently as a Swiss watch wound by atomic robots. Especially not with his creepy youkai breathing down my goddamn neck, using his constant psychological warfare against my dealers.” He took a deep breath and then seethed, “There’s really only so much a guy can take…” 

“You want me to rob the place,” Oikawa said boredly, looking down at his abysmal fingernails. There had been a distinct lack of nail files in prison. “You won’t ask, now that you’ve seen what my time did to me…”

Makki and Mattsun froze. It was all so obvious.

“…but you want to.”

“Oikawa, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. I think prison really messed you up…” Makki laughed easily.

Not easily enough, though.

“You tell me about my ex, to make me remember,” Oikawa sighed and leaned forward, speaking softly. “Then you tell me that my ex is dating the man who ruined my career. And then you tell me, a criminal mastermind who orchestrated the robbery of twenty-three locations and only got caught _once_ by an unexpected _blood test_ , that this man has become very, very wealthy.”

Mattsun swallowed and Makki made a choking noise.

“And you work for him, which gives you quite a nice advantage, Makki-chan.”

Mattsun cleared his throat, “We thought, you know, with your history… you’d be into it. But… seeing what that place did to you. We couldn’t ask.”

Makki nodded, “It’s not like… we still would have put you up, either way. That’s not why we offered to take you in.”

“I know,” Oikawa said casually. Because he did. He was pretty certain that a part of his friends thought that pulling off a job would actually cheer him up. And they weren’t wrong.

He’d always wondered how someone could be a repeat offender. How could you be so entirely stupid as to commit the same crime right after getting out? But now...

“I’m going to do it.”

“ _WHAT_?” They demanded in unison.

Oikawa chuckled and leaned forward, elbows on the table. He felt a bubble of excitement in his gut.

“I’m going to do it. In a few minutes, we’re going to go somewhere quiet, and you’re going to tell me what the score is. And then you’re going to take me to the eye doctor, because these things,” he pointed to his prison-issue glasses, “are hideous _._ And _then_ I’m going to get my gang together, and we’re going to rob Ushiwaka _blind_.”

“But…” Mattsun looked dubious. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but prison hasn’t exactly done you any favors. You want to risk going back?”

Oikawa rolled his neck and felt his shoulders finally relax.

“Well, you’re right to assume that I don’t want to go back,” he stretched his arms back and behind his head. “But, Mattsun-chan, there’s something else you two don’t know about your precious Tooru-chan and prison.”

_A cold tiny cell. Hours of mind numbing work. No talking. No eye contact. Rules about eating, drinking, sleeping, pissing, breathing._

“I sure hope Iwa-chan doesn’t know either,” he mused, twirling a piece of his hair around his finger, “otherwise he’s a lot meaner than I thought.”

_His arms bound behind his back, sitting in seiza for hours. The pressure on his knee building and building until he couldn’t physically stay up anymore. So they strap him into a harness that makes him stay up. Days locked in a white room, seeing no one. Even when he gets out of solitary, there’s no one to talk to. No visitors. No more letters. No responses._

“What’s that?” Makki asked almost inaudibly.

_He never, **ever** wanted to go back. But there was one thing he wanted more._

Oikawa clapped his hands and leaned forward, happy to share, “Oh, I’m so glad you asked. Because, you see…,” his voice dropped an octave and froze all the water in the air.

“Ushiwaka-chan’s the one who put me there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should have come to shiratorizawa.
> 
> thank my beta, PuppyHawk (ao3)/lesetoilesfous (tumblr), for saving you from a sea of commas.
> 
> Kelsey drew some phenomenal [art](http://mildlysurprising.tumblr.com/post/146020658577/ive-hit-777-followers-and-im-feelin-lucky-so) for this story


	2. They're orangeheads, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so, i am just a simple adult, and not always aware of all things that can trigger or squick the entire human population. so if something does cause you harm or discomfort, send me a message at my tumblr (it's silvercistern and don't worry i'll keep it private) and i'll add a note about it. 
> 
> generally content warnings will be at the beginning of each chapter as opposed for the entire story, with easy ways of skipping them.

_The American Club, Tokyo, 10am_

 

It was a nice day. A light breeze was blowing and the skies were blue. You could barely hear the sounds of traffic and people, just the faint chirping of birds nesting in the trees surrounding the valet parking lot. It was the kind of tranquility you had to fight for in a city this size.

Even if you had to fight your way through a tent of netting to actually see it.

“Okay,” a man’s heavily accented English broke the peace, ringing out across the rooftop court where he stood next to a volleyball net. He tried to keep his words as quick and to the point as possible. “Now it’s spiking practice. I’ll set. Line up please.”

The women standing around him tittered excitedly. And for more or less good reason: they weren’t taking this volleyball class because of any actual interest in the sport. Unsurprising, considering an exposed court like this put them at great risk for injury if they actually exerted themselves in the slightest.

But it wasn't like he had built the thing.

“We really like it when you set for us, Toby!” a relatively short redhead giggled, and the other women joined in. They were the well-to-do wives of diplomats, CEOs, entertainers, and any other Americans who had the price of an apartment to spare for membership to this ridiculous club. And too much time on their hands. Way too much time.

The man smiled back like he was yanking the expression out of his own throat inch by miserable inch. His slate blue eyes slid into sharper angles and every inch of him bristled with unspoken rage.

“You’re so goofy when you smile,” the redhead giggled again with no sense of self preservation whatsoever. 

He didn’t know what “goofy” meant, but his fingers twitched with the urge to throw her off the roof all the same. The toddlers’ class was in thirty minutes, he told himself. The toddlers’ class was in thirty minutes and he just had to make it that long. He’d thoroughly prepared for the current class. He’d memorized the English for all of the instructions and any questions that his students might ask. Every minute of time was accounted for, so there was no opportunity for his students to _chat_ with him. He was being paid _so much money_ to do this.

In his subconscious desire to escape, he stepped a bit too close to the edge of the building and was hit by a wave of vertigo despite the net and the thick fiberglass wall. A few of the women noticed and tittered again. 

It was possible that the money was not enough.

The redhead winked at him, somehow involving her _tongue_ and he decided that thirty minutes was definitely too long.

“Wait, no,” he called out to everyone in a choked voice. English was such a stupid language with its inconsistent endings and thirty words for slightly different versions of the same damn concept but he needed it now, and he was _so bad at it_. “It’s… h-hot. Get a…” what was the word? what was the word? “… _partner_ and practice tosses. I will get water.” He bowed quickly and excused himself, running down the stairs to the men’s restroom, the women’s disappointed cries following him.

Kageyama Tobio did not like women.

No, that wasn’t true. And sounded really shitty. He liked some women, just like he liked some men. He was very fond of Yachi and Kiyoko, even though he rarely got to see them. He admired Tanaka’s sister, even though she was overwhelming. He adored Natsu, even though she probably hated him now. He liked kind women at the grocery store who smiled at him and helpfully gestured when he was trying to decide which vegetables were fresh. He liked the small grandma who walked her tiny blind dog past his door every morning and stopped so Kageyama could pet him. He liked the women who worked with him, when he got a chance to see them.

Actually, he probably had very mild but nonetheless sincere affection for nearly every woman on the planet _except_ for the ones in his volleyball class.

Because no matter much he liked women, he did not _like_ women. But the ones in his volleyball class _liked_ him. Or they liked to mess with him under the pretense of flirtation. It was basically the same. In fact, he was starting to think that the only reason they took the class at all was to aggressively flirt. Which he could normally sort of handle (he'd picked up on the cues when he was _nineteen_ , damn it), but when a short woman with big brown eyes and bright orange hair was constantly trying to seduce him on the court… that was something he was not equipped to deal with for reasons that had very little to do with his admitted lack of social skills.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he held up a piece of his hair, wondering if shaving his head would disappoint them enough to make them give up. Contrary to rumors, he did take _some_ pride in his appearance, and he didn’t want to look completely awful. But Tanaka pulled it off well, so maybe Kageyama could too. He’d look okay enough, probably, but not like the solution to some American expat’s midlife crisis. But that was the point because then they'd _leave him alone_.

Although. Tanaka was thirty and still single despite wanting very much to be otherwise, so maybe a buzzed haircut didn’t actually look that okay after all. Not that Kageyama was looking for anybody. He’d had enough of _somebody_ for the rest of his damn life. He just wanted to be left alone in a place free of small redheads. (They were orangeheads, really. Why didn't anyone call them that?) If a bad haircut could make that happen then so be it.

But this wasn’t the time to figure that out. He couldn’t avoid his class anymore; he’d taken more than enough time for any able-bodied man to take a piss. With a deep sigh, he exited the bathroom, grabbed a case of water and headed back up the stairs to the sound of _raucous_ giggling.

Last time they’d been this loud, it had been trouble. One of the women had found photos from the National Team calendar and decided to share them with the rest of the class. Kageyama had come up the stairs and discovered his students all gathered around an iPad. On that iPad had been an image of himself, shirtless, wearing shorts he remembered being much too tight, holding a volleyball in one hand, and looking furious and uncomfortable, which the women mistook for sexy and brooding.

Kageyama only ever wanted to be around people who thought that photo was humiliating, hilarious, or both.  

Not that he would ever voluntarily show it to anybody.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he was greeted by another wave of giggling. But this time, they weren’t giggling at him. Or about him. Or whatever way ended up leaving him feeling gross and nervous and wishing he had severe acne. It was a sweet relief.

When he saw the source of the commotion, he changed his mind. And then his mind went more or less blank. So he didn't realize that he'd dropped the case of water from chest height until it exploded in a splash that reached his face.

“Yo~hoo~, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa Tooru grinned.

 

“Good job today, Ashley!”

Of course Oikawa’s English was perfect.

Kageyama watched the man gently put his hand on the shoulder of the redhead, the same woman who had been driving Kageyama crazy for months. The smarmy asshole acted like it was nothing, and just smiled at her until her cheeks were on fire. The instant she was about to respond, he ostensibly spotted someone else he needed to talk to, turning and leaving her a sputtering mess. Oblivious, he waved, calling out to a statuesque blonde, “Oh, Sophia! Your serves are looking great. Keep at it!”

Only, he wasn’t oblivious. At all.

He’d learned their names. All of them in _fifteen minutes_. Kageyama couldn’t even make his mouth _pronounce_ some of them, and he certainly didn’t know them by heart.

“Toby?”

The awful, awful name halted his efforts to grind his teeth down to nothing. One of his students, one of the few serious ones, looked up at him with concern.

“Is Tooru going to keep coming to our class?” she asked suspiciously.

“Of course you can have my autograph, Michelle!” Oikawa trilled in the background, as he caused more chaos. “I’m flattered you even _know_ of me.”

“No,” Kageyama answered the student immediately. There was no way, even if he wanted it, because if the management found out that an ex-con was in their expensive, exclusive club created solely for paranoid foreigners, he’d be fired faster than he could say, “hello, my name is Tobio Kageyama,” in his best English.

“No thank _you_ for letting me join your class,” Oikawa’s grateful voice made Kageyama want to throw himself down the stairs. “I’m a little rusty because I’ve been in prison!”

The women laughed uproariously like he’d made a hilarious joke, and Kageyama began to brainstorm what kind of job he could get when he was fired from this one. He had no idea how to navigate any kind of sophisticated interview process, and the work he’d done that could go on a resume was exclusively volleyball. He could coach a high school maybe, but he didn’t know if he could take it. Maybe if it were a girls’ team.

As long as they weren’t like these ones.

“Ah, okay!” the student interrupted his thoughts, clearly relieved. She was younger, actually she was probably in high school herself, and always seemed less bored than the others when they were playing the sport they were supposed to be learning. She was quick, and good at receives, but her jumps were weak. A lot of potential, but it would be hard to improve if she was moving from place to place a lot. Most of these people were. 

“Also, would you prefer to be called Tobio-chan?” she spoke in well-enunciated English, neither too quickly, nor too slow, which Kageyama appreciated. “I’m practicing my Japanese, but I’m still having difficulties with honorifics. I didn’t think we were ever calling you the right name, and then Tooru called you that so I thought... Toby’s not even your real name, is it?”

He shook his head.

“Kageyama-san would be right,” he said firmly, then backtracked, because he sounded like an asshole and they weren’t _supposed_ to use honorifics in this club. “Or just Kageyama. But don’t worry,” he peeked over her shoulder, trying to see what kind of nightmare Oikawa was causing. “The whole class uses the other name. So, it’s okay. I’m not sad.” As soon as the word “sad” was out of his mouth he knew he’d picked the wrong one for feeling upset, but it wasn’t like he could take it back.

She bowed a little, not knowing how to do it properly but trying all the same, and then ran off. His eyes followed her as she ran down the steps, wondering what position she wanted to play, and how he could have actually helped her improve if he weren’t stuck teaching bored rich idiots. When he really thought about it, it wasn’t like the men’s class was any better. They just didn’t try to hit on him, at least not generally. One had cornered him in the locker room right after a shower asking if he was single, which had been awkward to say the least. But they still didn’t care at all about volleyball, just used the opportunity to gossip with each other.

“Sorry,” he called out to the remaining students, trying to be loud and polite at the same time which felt kind of impossible. “The other class will start soon, so you have to go.” The women, most of whom were still gathered around Oikawa, grumbled and whined, but they slowly began to leave, half of them clutching signed napkins, tissues, and whatever else it was they had in their pockets that you could scribble a name on.

Kageyama bent down and began picking up the balls that the class had left behind. The little kids were going to use much smaller ones, and since these people clearly didn’t know how to pick up after themselves, he had to do it. Maybe Oikawa would get the picture and just leave, and then he could laugh quietly to himself while chubby little kids, many of whom spoke Japanese themselves, and who were almost all too young to be scared of him rolled around with volleyballs that they couldn’t do anything else with. All because their parents wanted them to learn the latest trendy sport.

“So,” he jumped at Oikawa’s voice right next to his ear, “you’ve gotten yourself an interesting job, Tobio-chan.” 

Kageyama yanked away the ball that Oikawa was reaching for and stood up. “Pay’s good. What do you want?”

“Well, as you might have figured out,” the taller man stood up until he was on his tiptoes and then leaned forward, grinning, “I just got out of prison."

He looked ragged. He was wearing old-timey glasses that looked like they came out of a cereal box. His hair was more like a bird's nest than his typical precise state of dishevelment. He had acne all around his hairline. His clothes, a pair of jeans with an out of fashion cut and a ratty Star Wars t-shirt, were much much too large.

And yet he still managed to make seventeen grown women scream.

“I noticed,” Kageyama dumped the balls into the bin as loudly as he could. “You’ve lost a lot of weight. Do you want me to write you a diet and training regimen? Is that why you’re here? Because if you’re going to get me fired I’d like it to be for a good reason.”

“I’m here to congratulate you, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa followed him as he flipped through the paperwork on his clipboard. “I’ve been told that you have a shiny gold medal.”

Kageyama dropped the clipboard and whirled around, hands clenched at his sides. There really wasn't anything he could ask that was worse than this. Well maybe one thing, but, considering the context of his relationship with Oikawa, this was worse. Because _this_ let both of them down.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he ground out, choosing anger over sadness and frustration and sympathy.

“I’m being sincere, you little shit,” Oikawa’s eyes flashed dangerously, his impatient, bratty core peeking through the cracks in his shattering veneer. Why Kageyama was one of the only people who ever got to see this was baffling, but he took the authenticity for what it was.

“So am I,” the rage in his eyes faded into something else and his shoulders sank, just a little. “There’s nothing worth congratulating, so just don’t.”

They stood for a while without saying anything.

It was still a really nice day. Something nice should happen.

“But actually,” Kageyama bowed as deeply as he could while still standing up, “thank you for keeping me and, uh, everybody out of prison, Oikawa-san. I can never repay you for that. Ever. I know they feel the same. We’ll help you get back on your feet however we can.”

He stood up, and Oikawa was right there, inches away from him, a deep frown across his lips and a furrowed brow. Behind smudged glasses, brown eyes scanned Kageyama’s face like Oikawa was trying to relearn it.

Kageyama turned his head, because authentic or not this shit was creepy, “In about two minutes, thirty children from the ages of three to five are going to be on this court with their minders. If you’re up here and you get caught, we might both end up in prison.”

“I didn’t go to jail for _that_ sort of thing _,_ ” Oikawa pulled back, affronted.

“That’s not going to make much of a difference to the people who run this club.”

“Fine, fine, Tobio-chan. Sooo uptight, as usual," the ragged man headed to the exit. "But we’re not done, you and I.”

“What could you possibly have that I want?” Because it certainly wasn't all the memories that were making Kageyama's mind a terrible place to be right now. And it wasn't companionship either, because that had never, ever gone well.

Oikawa glanced coyly over his shoulder as he went down the stairs, “a job, of course.”

Kageyama briefly considered jumping off of the building.

 

_A small, well-kept traditional home, Saitama, 8pm_

 

Sawamura Daichi was widely considered to be a hardworking, honest man. His father had been a hardworking, honest man, and his grandfather before him. Generations of Sawamuras had done honest, respectable work all the way from rice paddies to merchant houses. They were decent, reputable men as a rule, and Daichi was no exception.

Now in the modern age, it was that very same honorable steadiness that had won the son of such a respectable family the heart of the most kindhearted, beautiful person on the planet. It had also built the only cooperative of traditional ryokan in the nation, a simple idea which allowed financially beleaguered innkeepers to stay in business, and Daichi to make a _staggering_ amount of money by maintaining their establishments.

As such, he was probably the wealthiest Sawamura in generations. Maybe ever.

Of course, Suga's gentle hands had also added to their prosperity. Neurosurgeons, especially ones with patented research, were very well compensated. In fact, Suga had paid cash for the house in which they were currently living, not to mention taken care of all their day-to-day living expenses, from groceries to clothes.

Suffice it to say, they were living a very comfortable life.

But despite all that, Daichi felt supreme confidence in the knowledge that no one could ever say that all of their hard work had been done for material gain. Suga’s career of _saving the lives of tiny children_ was more of a vocation, and Daichi knew he would do it for free if necessary. In fact he sometimes did. Daichi employed hundreds of people while guaranteeing their autonomy and preserving national tradition in the face of commercialized hotels and now, _legal_ gambling houses.

Daichi was generous and free with his resources. He gave to almost anyone who came to his door and asked. It was just the right thing to do. And doing the right thing gave him great pleasure. 

But as he stared down at the smiling figure on his doorstep, he discovered a sudden interest in keeping his cash as close to his person as possible.

"What a modest home!" Oikawa Tooru exclaimed as he stepped inside without being invited. “Aren't you supposed to be rich?"

"Suga!" Daichi called over his shoulder.

"Yes, Daichi?" a soft voice called back.

"Lock everything valuable in the safe. And how much sake do we have?"

 

 

The answer was “probably not enough,” but they were sitting on the verandah, screens open to their moonlit garden, drinking it anyway. The pleasantries, if they could be called that, were over thanks to Suga who had handled them. Now he and Oikawa were both trying to subtly pump each other for what Daichi considered to be pointless information. If he didn’t know both of them, he’d think it was just frivolous gossip. But since he did, it was like watching two master swordsmen duel.

A very long duel that was starting to get simultaneously boring and dangerous the more they both drank.

"Can we maybe get to the reason for your visit?" Daichi asked with a smile. It was the only way he knew how to change the subject. He wasn't nearly drunk enough to make small talk with a walking, talking trash heap whose misdeeds could send his shining, delicate husband to jail.

Oikawa's eyebrow lifted over his glasses, looking surprised and hurt. As though he wasn’t there to ask for something, probably something enormous, and just wanted to have a friendly chat.

Daichi wasn’t born yesterday. He turned to Suga for the support that he could always rely on.

And Suga immediately betrayed him.

"Daichi! The man just got out of jail!" His cheeks were flushed from the alcohol (adorable), and thankfully he was on sabbatical, because there was no way he could tie his shoes, let alone perform emergency surgery. He was going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning.

"Yeah, and?” Daichi was defensive, and for good reason. He didn’t often insult his guests, especially ones that looked to be in such ill health. But this was a special circumstance. “I don’t have much sympathy, seeing as for the next four years we have to live knowing you could get sent to that very same jail, all because of him."

"It's really cute how you're keeping track of the statute of limitations, Dai-chan," Oikawa leaned forward onto the table, looking a little drunk himself.

Daichi took a deep breath, a demand for no more stupid nicknames gathering in his lungs, but Suga beat him to it.

Unfortunately, once again his husband started yelling at the wrong person.

"Are you seriously saying that I didn't make my own decision in that situation? That I wasn’t capable of doing so?"

Of course he was yelling at Daichi. His caring husband. Who had not, for the record, convinced the love of his life to illegally administer an experimental tissue regeneration treatment on a volleyball player turned thief who had just robbed a _hospital_ for it. And yet he, the adoring husband, was the one getting yelled at.

Of course.

"In this case, it was a medical decision, one that neither of you could even understand, but of course it’s Tooru’s fault, because I couldn’t possibly think on my own," Suga was ranting now, his voice getting higher and higher. “I suppose I’m not even able to make a proper evaluation concerning a treatment I _fucking_ pioneered?"

"Ah, I just realized I need to go to the restroom," Oikawa made to stand because apparently even _he_ couldn't handle Suga when he was angry and drunk. Daichi felt pride in that, because he was at least still sitting up straight and looking directly at his angry husband’s lovely face.

"No you don't, Tooru!” Suga grabbed his wrist and yanked him down, “Now sit down and listen!"

"Suga..." Daichi began gently, "it's not that I didn't think you understood the risks, it's just that the thought of you in prison..."

"Well you know what, Daichi?” Suga waved his hand unsteadily. “I could handle prison. For the two to three years, and _yes_ , I looked it up before I decided to _break the law_. I would have to live under pretty draconian conditions. No socializing, working for fifteen hours straight, functioning under hundreds of ridiculous regulations. I know all that. But you know what?"

He paused, waiting for an answer this time.

"What, Suga?" Daichi muttered, feeling whipped and embarrassed and kind of turned on.

"I went to medical school!” Suga threw up his hands, “Prison would feel like old times! And if I could handle it in my twenties, I could handle it now. In fact, it’d be even better knowing that I have you waiting for me once it’s all over. _In fact_ , I’d probably get a lot of work done. I could think through some formulas that have been driving me nuts for _years_."

Daichi's jaw dropped and his eyes softened.

"Actually," Suga stood clumsily, pointing at Oikawa, "based on the tremors in his hands and eyelids, and the weight he's lost, not to mention the overall psychological damage that's _clearly_ visible since he cowers every time he doesn’t think we’re looking, I probably should have been the one who went to jail in the first place!"

With that, he sat down haughtily and crossed his arms like he always did when knew he was going to get his way. In this case, it wasn’t readily apparent what he wanted, but Daichi was certain that would make an appearance sooner or later. So he decided not to mention that if Suga got caught he’d probably lose his medical license too, a fact sober Suga was probably aware of.

"You're always so refreshing, Suga-chan," Oikawa chuckled, apparently okay with being assigned a mental illness.

"Wellllll,” Suga tilted his head, his cowlick bouncing, “I slice open babies’ heads for a living. Every seventh one dies, more or less. If I couldn't look on the bright side, I'd go insane."

Oikawa caught Daichi's gaze. "He is _terrifying_ ,” he muttered under his breath.

Daichi gave a single nod of agreement then threw back the remaining sake so Suga couldn’t drink any more.  

“Whatever it is you want, Oikawa, can you just tell us?” he hissed as the liquid slid down his throat, hoping they could finally change the subject. “Not that you can’t visit, but I figured you wouldn’t really want to see us seeing as I donated about ten million yen to charity over the past five years, and it was all yours.”

“Well not really yours, because you _stole_ it,” Suga said cheekily, elbows leaning on the table. 

Oikawa tipped his head and waved his hand in an admissive, amused gesture, “What kind of charities?”

Daichi wished he hadn’t just drunk all of the sake so at least he could pause for a drink and give himself a minute to think. But there wasn’t one, and if he didn’t say something it would make this all the more painful, because that question was a ticking bomb.

“Ovarian cancer research,” he said firmly, because it was a true fact, and he wasn’t ashamed of their choice. But he didn’t really know what to say after that.

“Actually,” Oikawa murmured after a long silence, “I really do need to use your restroom.” He stood and went into the hall before they could stop him or respond.

“It’s around the corner and to your right,” Daichi called after him, wishing he knew what kind of comfort was appropriate for the situation. He turned back to Suga, expecting a concerned look, coupled with some advice on how to treat the man who was mourning the loss of his mother four years after her death, but his expectations were completely wrong.

Suga had stretched his arm across the table and was leaning on it, looking up at Daichi with a wide-eyed, blissful expression.

“He’s got a job,” he sighed happily, which Daichi felt was very inappropriate for the current atmosphere. “He’s going to ask you to back it.”

And _there_ were Suga’s demands.

“He’d have to ask _us_ ,” Daichi reached out and firmly took his hand, trying hard not to immediately say no so that maybe, just maybe, he’d have a chance, “it’s _our_ money.”

“Yeah,” Suga rolled onto his back, “but last time there was this kind of risk, I made the call. It’s your turn. Plus, at the level he’s going to want, it’s _mostly_ your money.”

It hurt, whenever Suga made it sound like the life they’d made together was all resting on Daichi’s back. As though Daichi could have functioned without Suga’s laugh, his comfort, his general presence. Without him, Daichi would be an entirely different man. A pretty miserable one at that.

“But we—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Suga whined. “It’s _ours_. Still.”

“And if I say yes?” Daichi pushed. “And _I_ get arrested? What will you do?”

Suga flung his arm across his forehead, “Oh how will I, a poor helpless medical doctor, ever manage to survive?”

Daichi glared at him, feeling more than a bit slighted at his lack of concern, “Why did we ever _want_ to do this?” Because he honestly couldn’t remember. All he knew is why they’d stopped.

“Well, mostly I think it was because Tooru was targeting assholes we didn’t like,” Suga said thoughtfully. “The first time it was a drug company that wouldn’t let me work with my _own treatment_ because of their greedy regulations...” he lifted one of his arms in the air and pointed it at different points in the ceiling, as though Oikawa’s past targets were projected up there. “Then that shitty collector who embarrassed your dad really badly… and then hm… that corporation that cut down all those old gingkos, I think…”

“So, spite?” Daichi felt rather embarrassed, because he remembered well enough now.

Suga rolled onto his side, “I like to call it personal pride.”

“I don’t know if there’s anyone I hate that much anymore.”

Suga sat up, slid back to the floor, and turned around. “I think there iiiis,” he sang out, tossing back his head. “Anyway, it’s not just that. You want to do this for the same reason Tooru does. The same reason anyone keeps up this level of criminal behavior after their needs are met.”

“Suga, I am _not_ greedy. In fact, I think I’m a pretty generous person.”

His husband crawled across the floor, tenderly framing Daichi’s face with his hands. “Of course you are, Daichiii,” he soothed, soft brown eyes catching his. His breath smelled strongly of alcohol. It was just awful and Daichi didn't mind at all. Suga nuzzled his nose a little bit, “You’re an honorable, respectable, generous man.” He leaned in until he was running his teeth across the shell of Daichi’s ear and purring in a low voice, “But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to _win_.”

Daichi pulled back, sputtering protests, but Suga leaned forward, pulling him into a deep, languorous kiss.

“Since you're clearly torn up about it, you should know I’m not angry about the money.”

Oikawa’s cheery voice at the door might as well have been a bucket of cold water. Suga jumped away from Daichi with a small yelp.

“Actually,” the man leaned against the doorframe, “I appreciate your caution. It probably kept my somewhat… delicate associates out of prison.”

Daichi sat up straighter, adjusting his tie and pretending with all of his might that he wasn’t sporting a semi. Just from a kiss, and after drinking? Maybe he _was_ more into this than he thought.

“I sacrificed a lot for them, you know,” Oikawa added loftily in a clear attempt to destroy any sort of sympathetic feeling his initial show of concern had elicited, “It would have been really irritating to be stuck in the same prison with at least one of them.” 

“Ooooh, getting serious,” Suga said, apropos of no shift in atmosphere that Daichi could recognize. He flounced back onto his zabuton, silver hair bouncing. 

“Okay, let's get started, shall we?” Oikawa kneeled into seiza, unable to keep from wincing on the way down.

“Don’t do that!” Suga chided. “Your knee isn’t stable enough! I need to set you up with a physical therapist… and probably a cardiologist… _definitely_ a psychiatrist _…_ ”

Oikawa ignored him and leaned forward in front of Daichi, until his forehead was almost touching the floor.

The manipulative bastard.

“Sawamura-sama, Sugawara-sensei,” he said into the tatami mat, “I have a very rewarding business opportunity that I beseech you to consider...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what has daichi done to deserve this
> 
>  
> 
> this is like two days early but my phenomenal beta, PuppyHawk, is 80% of my impulse control and she's not online right now. 
> 
> expect weekend updates every two weeks.


	3. Shoujo Tuesdays

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> japanese hornets will literally kill you.

_Shiratorizawa Hotel and Casino, 4pm_

They met at the gym every Tuesday. It was really the only free time Wakatoshi had consistently, so Iwaizumi didn’t complain. They worked out, had dinner in the hotel’s five-star restaurant, and then watched documentaries. Though the restaurant was ridiculous and extravagant, it was overall a practical date and a convenient workout. Iwaizumi never had to scramble around for a spotter and always got good feedback on his form.

Brutally honest feedback. But it helped.

Wakatoshi didn’t lie about anything. He didn’t seem to know how. It was a good thing once you got used to it, Iwaizumi had decided. He always knew where he stood, and where he stood was stable. No surprises. No waking up one morning and discovering his entire life was a lie.

Granted, it wasn’t perfect. Iwaizumi had tried not to delve too deep into the mysteries of the human psyche over the past few years. But it was hard to ignore how the ability to lie seemed intrinsically tied to a person’s sense of humor.

Wakatoshi definitely didn’t have one of those. Hence the documentaries, which were also just fine. Between his own degree, and everything they’d watched Iwaizumi’s knowledge of the natural world could only be qualified as vast at this point.

He was two hours early to their weekly standing appointment. The decision to let all of his staff go at three was an easy one; he was concerned they were getting eye damage from squinting too long at the huge batch of specimens that had come in from Malaysia. They were good workers, and they’d work themselves into the ground if he let them.

It was the type of person he seemed to attract.

He could have stayed once they left. He had a hell of a lot to get done, as always. There was a donor interested in expanding the collection’s capacity with some endowed positions, but only if his name was added to the collection itself. Of course that was out of the question. Iwaizumi appreciated donors, they paid the vast majority of his salary, but what he didn’t get was their obsession with putting their name on every damn thing, even the benches. It was so fucking flashy. Weren’t they embarrassed?

On a pretty regular basis he ran into the very same narcissists at the casino, which pissed him off even more. If they had money to burn like that, they should be giving it to someone. Not even the museum. He didn’t care, just someone who needed it, like a kid in college or a single mom or something. 

There was absolutely nothing he wanted less than interacting with people that he had to suck up to, so instead of going in and winding through the baccarat tables to get to the penthouse elevator, he took a walk in the park. He was keyed up for some reason and he wanted to calm down a little, because when he was in an authentically bad mood Wakatoshi had a tendency to making it a million times worse. He didn’t mean to, but he did.

 _Comparisons are pointless, comparisons are pointless._ He repeated the phrase to himself, wondering why comparisons even mattered five damn years after the fact.

He was lost in thought, trying hard not to remember how obnoxious and… cheering that asshole had been, when he tripped.

Over a foot in the middle of the walk, of all things. The idiot who owned it was kneeling in a patch of sayuri that afforded a direct line of sight to the entrance of the casino. The tall orange lilies hid every part of whoever it was, other than the feet, so it was hard to tell what they were doing. But it looked like the perfect place for a creepy stalker to hide.

The potential pervert stood up while Iwaizumi was deciding if he should ask whether something was wrong or tell them to move their damn legs and go sit on a bench like a normal person. It turned out to be a man (perverts usually were), and the guy was bowing before he’d even stood up all the way, apologizing over and over in a hushed, trembling voice.

Iwaizumi’s favorite dog (his only dog really) had been taken out of an abusive home before they adopted him. They never really found out what had happened to the tawny Akita, but he acted just like this guy was doing now whenever his dad lost his temper. 

There wasn’t any point in yelling at him, Iwaizumi figured, reaching out to calm him down and ask if he needed someone to buy him a meal. His hand touched a thin arm, and the man jumped, yelping, “please don’t!” in a way that got everyone’s attention. 

Iwaizumi’s jaw dropped.

The twitching, subservient mannerisms were completely unfamiliar. The voice was not.

No matter how much you strengthened your abs, in the end you couldn’t protect against a metaphorical punch to the gut.

Iwaizumi couldn’t make his mouth say the name. All that came out was a choked, “Oi!” which was probably worse, because if he was even remotely close to being in his right mind this fucker was going to notice and latch on to that vulnerability immediately.

Oikawa’s head shot up at the sound of his voice. He was wearing shitty glasses and his face was a fucking mess. He looked sick. Really, really sick. Iwaizumi’s first instinct was to punch him until he couldn’t move, drag him home, and feed him an entire barrel of yakisoba.

“I-Iw-Iwa-” he stammered with wide, terrified eyes.

Iwaizumi felt his own ribs rattle.

He took a deep breath because he could not, would not follow his instincts. “What the hell are you doing, Oikawa?” he demanded weakly, crossing his arms.

A long silence was strung between them, stretching back five years to a day he still hated to remember. Desolate weeping echoing down the prison hallway. The bush into which he’d vomited in the parking lot, shaking so much it took both Matsukawa and Hanamaki to keep him from collapsing. Taking a leave of absence from school and staying with his father while those two found a sublet for their, no _his_ apartment since financial responsibility didn’t stop when someone went to jail. Spending an entire summer renovating the backyards of every person in his childhood neighborhood, until he realized that it reminded him of what he’d lost… (what he’d never had), even more than Tokyo did. Coming home, and sifting through their belongings in storage, pulling what belonged to him out of piles of memories until it hurt so much that he couldn’t bear it.

Iwaizumi slammed the door.

Oikawa had stopped trembling. It was impressive, how quickly he could pull himself together. Every muscle in Iwaizumi’s body was still tensed, while the taller man looked like he was ready to slip into a bath.

“Oh, I just dropped a piece of paper with directions to a job interview,” he said easily, answering the question that seemed hours old. “Fancy meeting you here, Iwaizumi.”

His own family name hit him like a thunderclap. Over the past twenty-five years, Oikawa had called him a lot of things, but this was the first time he’d ever called him that.

He didn’t call _anybody_ that.

_No._

“You’re wearing half our school uniform and a shirt you bought when you were ten. No one dresses like that for an interview,” Iwaizumi said flatly. “But why not lie to me anyway? It’s not like you haven’t been doing it for most of our adult life.” 

Oikawa’s eyes dimmed for the briefest moment, and Iwaizumi decided that he wasn’t going to concern himself with what his eyes did anymore. He’d thought he knew how to read them once. But he had been wrong. 

It didn’t last long, anyway. Then he was flipping his hair, despite the fact that it was a lot flatter than normal, and smiling. Oikawa reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper that he showed Iwaizumi with a flourish. It had an address for somewhere in Kabuchiko and read:

**Glass Heart Tattoos**

 “I know the owner,” Oikawa said, and he didn’t say how. Iwaizumi had his suspicions. “I’m going over tomorrow, and he’s going to help me out. Anything to get me back on my feet, you know?”

Iwaizumi grunted, because he hated being wrong. Especially when it came to this asshole. Even assuming the worst wasn’t working. His heart fucking ached. It was bullshit beyond comprehension.

“But,” Oikawa continued, sounding hopeful and a little desperate and who the fuck did he think he was kidding? “I guess I did come to this park in the off chance I might see you.”

Iwaizumi scowled and spread his arms, “well here I am.”

Oikawa shook his head the way he always did when he thought Iwaizumi was being stupid. He wanted to punch the look off his face, but the idea of doing so felt so desperately intimate it made him feel worse.

“I just meant from a distance. I didn’t want to upset you. Which, by the looks of things, I’ve already–”

“No, you wanted to see Wakatoshi and I _together_ ,” Iwaizumi snarled defensively. “Because that’s what you do, you put on disguises and then you _stalk_ people who have stuff that you want. I mean,” he gestured to Oikawa’s trousers, “this might be the worst disguise I’ve ever fucking seen, but still, you’d never…”

“Your brilliant powers of perception are failing you, Iwa----izumi,” Oikawa sneered back, finally riled up. “These are the only ones that fit, and incidentally, the only clothing I currently _own_.” He swallowed and his voice broke for the barest moment, “forgive me for wanting to catch a brief glimpse of someone that I’ve missed very much. With the exception of Makki and Mattsun, everyone else hates me or is _dead_.” 

He could either pull him into his arms, hold him close and tell him that he missed her too, every day, or he could say nothing at all.

Iwaizumi had learned how to keep his mouth shut. 

The silence now was sickly. It was vaguely reminiscent of the summer when they were nine and Oikawa had been stung by a hornet. Iwaizumi had dragged his unconscious body to shelter, beyond terrified that he’d be stung himself.

Now he was just letting him lie there.

“Is everything alright, Hajime?” asked a sonorous voice behind him.

He closed his eyes, wishing he had just gone up to the goddamn penthouse.

“Hey, yeah. I got here early and was going for a walk and I…”

“Oikawa Tooru…” Wakatoshi rolled out the name slowly, sounding surprised, which was a rarity. Iwaizumi wanted to grab someone’s hand and pull him far away. It didn’t even matter whose, as long as this conversation didn’t have to happen. Especially not now.

“Ushiwaka,” Oikawa smirked, as if he was in the superior position somehow. His ability to recover really was amazing.

“Please don’t call me that. And you need to see a doctor. You look very sick.”

“Turns out they don’t feed you that well in prison. And, wouldn’t you know? The gym that I was promised was nonexistent.”

“I’m not going to give you any sympathy. You received a just punishment for your crime.”

Oikawa cocked his head to the side. “What about yours, captain?”

Iwaizumi could feel the body behind him tense. It set off alarms in his mind. The most immediate was preventing this interaction from sending Oikawa back to prison.

“Alright. So, Wakatoshi, weren’t you going to go for a run?” Iwaizumi stood in front of him, putting himself between the two ex teammates. “Why don’t we do that?”

“Yes, but you’re still in your work clothing,” Wakatoshi said, relaxing into a brief amused smile. “Which looks nice, by the way.”

Iwaizumi grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the sayuri. “Okay. You get started and I’ll change and meet you?”

Wakatoshi looked up into the air, calculating something, “I’ll meet you here in five laps. That should be ample time.”

“Make it six,” Iwaizumi tilted his head back at Oikawa, who was trying to burn a hole through Wakatoshi with his glare. “I’ve got some of his stuff, and it needs to be dealt with.”

“Excellent. Best to sever all connections.”

And then moving very stiffly he bent down and kissed Iwaizumi, hard, on the lips.

Normally he wouldn’t even hold his hand in public.

 

 

“So, I have all of your stuff,” Iwaizumi said, approaching Oikawa, although he wasn’t entirely certain that he was listening. “It’s all in a storage unit. I don’t have the key with me, but if you come by my office you can get it. Just come to The University Museum at Todai and ask for the–”

“Suguru Igarashi Insect Collection,” Oikawa finished for him, still staring off into space with a determined look in his eyes. He turned to Iwaizumi, “oh, don’t stand there with that uncomfortable expression. Makki and Mattsun told me. Congratulations, by the way.”

Iwaizumi cleared his throat, not expecting that. “Just… come by whenever.”

“I will, though I expect to be rather busy for the next few days.”

Iwaizumi thrust his hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what the fuck else to do with them. “Job hunting?” he asked, making small talk of all things.

“More or less,” Oikawa nodded, “don’t you need to leave? Ushiwaka is not patient when he’s training, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” Iwaizumi grunted, waiting for an accusation that never came. “I uh… guess I’ll be seeing you, then?”

Oikawa nodded. Iwaizumi turned and headed down the path to the casino, feeling like he’d been hit by a truck.

“Oh, and Iwaizumi?” the idiot’s obnoxiously smooth voice called after him.

“What?”

“He’s right, you know. You look amazing.”

“And you look like a skeleton!” he yelled in response. “Go eat a steak!”

He wasn’t fucking blushing.

That would be stupid.

_The Matsukawa-Hanamaki residence, 8pm_

 

The key to happiness, Matsukawa had always thought (since it was a trite thing to actually _say_ ), was to keep your expectations low. That way you were rarely disappointed. What’s more, you were then available to be surprised by things that, otherwise, you’d have just been waiting for.

Having more or less followed this mantra his entire adult life, Matsukawa found himself pleasantly surprised often.

He had a pleasant enough job, a more than pleasant enough partner, lived in a pleasant apartment in a fairly convenient neighborhood, and he had pleasant friendships with a wide variety of people, all of whom were incredibly easy to insult.

In this pleasant life, there was a routine. An ebb and flow that was rarely interrupted. Takahiro, it turned out, enjoyed home life best in the style of an eighty-five-year-old man. When he wanted to relax, he preferred projects and games that required a party of one. Since Matsukawa often wanted to spend his time reading or lying in front of the television and marathoning whatever show had struck his fancy, he didn’t mind his husband’s solitaire addiction in the slightest.

The fact that he physically played the game, instead of just using a computer, was actually kind of cute.

He didn’t know just when it had happened, but at some point Tuesday nights had become completely dedicated to solo pursuits: a night for both of them to decompress alone. Neither was responsible for entertaining the other in any way whatsoever. But at the end of the night they usually had mind-blowing sex on the kitchen table anyway.

It was a solid system

And then Oikawa arrived.

And if there was one thing above all else that he was good at it was _destroying_ peace and tranquility.

Also cockblocking. He’d always been good at that too.

Really, it was like they had adopted an infant. Actually, an infant would have been easier. And cuter, even though babies were... weird.

Matsukawa didn’t regret their decision to give the guy a place to stay. His sister sounded like a… not a good sister, and, actually, it was probably okay to call someone a bitch when she left her little brother at a train station with a few boxes of clothing from high school and nothing else. Also, Oikawa was a wreck. He’d lost upwards of fifteen kilos, gotten pimples, (and the resulting scars), and since he’d never gotten any kind of physical therapy, his knee hadn’t healed right. Now he walked with a limp that even a seasoned bullshitter like him couldn’t hide. He really needed help, and he was their friend. Maybe their most problematic friend, but still, their friend. And that’s what friends did, they helped each other out.

But as their landline rang and the sounds of random thudding drifted down the hall from Takahiro’s office (now Oikawa’s room) Matsukawa thought about pushing his problematic friend down some stairs.

Because it was that time of night again, and although this call was always somewhat amusing, Matsukawa was overall just annoyed by the interruption.

“Ah yes, hello Suzuki-san!”

Why did he always have to talk so _loudly_ when he did this?

“Wonderful evening, isn’t it? Oh don’t worry, I’m behaving myself. In fact, my friends and I are about to play cards for the evening. No no! No gambling, just some good clean fun. I don’t even have anything to gamble _with_ Suzuki-san.”

Ugh, it was just so embarrassing.

“Yes, I looked for work again today. And guess what? I have an interview at a tattoo parlor tomorrow! Yes, indeed, things are looking up! I hope you have a good night too, sir. Till tomorrow then!”

Takahiro set the phone down and coughed violently all over the game of solitaire spread across the kitchen table. “Fuck. Oikawa, imitating your damn voice is really hard on the throat,” he shook his head, unnerved. “And the soul.”

“Who would have thought your little middle school hobby would be so useful when scamming parole officers,” Matsukawa called to his husband from the couch. “But could you maybe be a little quieter next time? I’m trying to watch this…”

He trailed off at the sound of a knock on the door.

Matsukawa was pretty confident that sound signaled the end of his pleasant evening. He really needed to talk to Oikawa about the sanctity of Tuesdays.

“Sorry, Mattsun,” Oikawa trilled, appearing out of nowhere and flouncing through the living room in a fashion monstrosity, “but shoujo night is about to be interrupted.”

“Are those your old uniform pants?” Takahiro was still coughing. 

“Just how many Star Wars shirts do you own?” Matsukawa demanded.

“Never you mind about my clothes, I want to introduce you to someone,” the Incarnation of Annoyance yanked open the door.

Takahiro seemed to want to say something else, but he couldn't stop coughing.

Whoever was at the door must have been particularly special, because Oikawa looked absolutely vicious. Matsukawa felt that it was almost pleasant to see, certainly better than the beat down look that his friend had picked up.

Oikawa’s words were dripping with sugary sweet insincerity as he said, “I see you got my message, Tobio-chan.” He lifted the last syllable even more than normal, and it was pretty obvious that they were all in for some kind of wretched reunion with someone from Oikawa’s less than savory past. Which, to be fair, they had kind of asked him to unearth. But still. He didn’t have to be so damn irritating about it. Like, for instance, he could have told them they were having a guest so that Matsukawa could have changed out of his pajamas or just not _into_ them in the first place.

“Sorry for intruding,” came a deep voice that sounded about as miserable as everyone felt. The voice’s owner stepped onto the landing, wearing a black leather jacket and calf high boots despite the weather.

“Mattsun-chan, Makki-chan, I’d like to introduce you to Tobio-chan,” Oikawa said with a flourish before running down the hall to his bedroom.

There was a long, awkward silence and it was pretty clear that the guy was trying to figure out if those were their actual names, and, if so, just which part of their names they were.

“I’m Hanamaki Takahiro,” the only person who’d say those words called out. He was leaning backwards on the kitchen chair he was sitting on so he could see all the way through the living room and onto the landing where their guest was standing awkwardly. The guy was struggling to take off his boots based on the noise.

“Matsukawa Issei,” Matsukawa said boredly with a quick glance away from the television.  

“Kageyama Tobio,” the man said with a dip of his head, evidently relieved that they wouldn’t be calling him Tobio-chan for the rest of the night.

The name sounded familiar, so Matsukawa paused his show and sat up, taking a better look at the visitor. He had an interesting appearance: shiny black hair almost plastered to his head that somehow managed to look fairly handsome, sharp blue eyes. But most interesting of all was the expression that announced, (loudly,) “I just ate a battery.”

Recollection turned to recognition and Matsukawa stood up.

“Wait a minute… you’re that guy… from that thing!”

Takahiro abandoned his game and left the kitchen, tilting his head curiously to see what could have possibly made Matsukawa stand up on a Tuesday.

“Oh yeah, I know you,” he crossed his arms. “You’re that dude from last Olympics.”

“But you didn’t get to play at all,” Matsukawa mused, then realized he probably should have kept his mouth shut, because the statement seemed to have put Kageyama in the interesting position of wanting to punch a complete stranger in the face while standing in said stranger’s house. They stared at him, and he stared back, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Alright!” Oikawa jumped back into the room, interrupting the unexpectedly tense moment. He clapped his hands together with far more excitement than was acceptable. He had a box in his arms and rolled up blueprints tucked under his armpits.

“Let’s plan a heist!”

His excitement was so overblown that Matsukawa itched to pop it just to see what he was overcompensating for, but he was a little nervous that their unexpected visitor would use the opportunity to punch him in the face.

Kageyama turned on Oikawa instead, which was good enough, _“That’s_ what you brought me for? I told you no already.”

“Actually, you didn’t,” Oikawa said loftily. “I told you I had a job, there was a thoughtful pause, and then I made a very well-timed exit while you stood on a roof…” His voice dropped while his eyes grew sharper and his smile faded as he snarled, “…and thought about how _pathetic_ your life is.”

“Whoa there, Princess Leia, dial it back,” Takahiro told their indefinite houseguest, glancing at Kageyama nervously. “Much as I love my conversations with Suzuki-san, I’d rather he not stop by. So no brawling in the living room.”

But it didn’t seem to matter what he said because Kageyama was completely focused on yelling at Oikawa, as though no one else was in the room at all. Or maybe this was how he normally acted around strangers, Matsukawa had no idea. Either way, this guy was _terrible_ at meeting new people.

“Is that your parole officer he’s talking about, Oikawa-san?” Kageyama got _in Oikawa’s face_ , which only one person had ever seemed to be allowed to do. “Because this is crazy! You’ll go right back to jail!”

“Oh you see Tobio-chan, I won’t, actually,” Oikawa sounded as feral as Matsukawa had ever heard him, somehow maintaining that jocular, flirty tone at the same time. It was menacing and weirdly sexual and maybe how demons were supposed to sound.

Kageyama took a step back.

“Because I’ve got you,” Oikawa cooed, dropping the box with a thud and taking a step forward, not letting Kageyama have an ounce of personal space. “And you’ve never set up a job that has gone sour. Out of twenty-three. The hospital job, that was… well. Suffice it to say it had nothing to do with you, my getting caught. You’ve never put _anyone_ at risk–”

Kageyama’s face flipped from bitter and a little uncomfortable to a deep, raging purple. A huge vein stood out on the part of his forehead that was visible.

“ _STOP. FUCKING. TALKING_ ,” he bellowed.

It was definitely the loudest sound that had ever happened in their apartment, even louder than that time they’d knocked over the refrigerator by accident.

Also on a Tuesday. 

“There’s a story here that we don’t know,” Takahiro told Matsukawa casually, “and I’m personally offended that they haven’t told it to us.”

Oikawa took a deep breath, lifting his hands palm up like some kind of deranged monk. “Okay. Tobio, clearly some things have gone really wrong for you since I’ve been away.”

Kageyama didn’t say anything, just kind of snarled. Even though all the drama was fairly interesting Matsukawa really just wanted to get back to his show. Mostly because at this point it just looked like foreplay between Oikawa and his favorite type: angry, stoic, and emotionally constipated. Though this was certainly a huge step down from the last model. 

“I brought you here,” the soothing tone curdled as Oikawa spit out the reason between clenched teeth, “because I need you.”

“Is this the beginning of a porno?” Takahiro hissed into his ear. “Are we stuck watching the ‘just got out of prison,’ special?”

“We did this to ourselves,” Matsukawa muttered back.

“Alright,” Kageyama grunted after a very long pause during which Matsukawa was _certain_ he’d slam Oikawa against the wall and kiss him. “But only to see if it’s possible. And only because we – _I_ owe you. If it works out, you can have the setup, but not me.”

Oikawa broke into a wide grin and picked up the box, skipping into the kitchen. “I think you’ll change your mind once you start playing again,” he said over his shoulder. 

Kageyama didn’t respond, he just grunted and followed.

If the look on his face was any indication, batteries were very difficult to digest. 

 

 

“So, other than ruining my game, what is he doing exactly?” Takahiro grumbled.

Kageyama was sitting at their kitchen table, his chair surrounded by the playing cards that Oikawa had swept onto the floor in order to lay out a full set of blueprints for the hotel. The very top, the part that said “Shiratorizawa Hotel and Casino” had been cut away, which was pretty suspicious. Although at this point, anything _not_ shady about the entire enterprise was really what was going to stand out as odd. On the map were about twenty stacks of different colored sticky notes, about the same number of colored pencils, highlighters, a ruler, protractor, calculator, a very small laptop, and a stack of what looked like outlines written in Oikawa’s handwriting.

Kageyama grabbed those first, gathering the pages against the table with a sharp tap, and then running his hands along the words to read.

“Tobio-chan is generally an idiot. However, he is good at one thing,” Oikawa turned to both Matsukawa and Takahiro. “And when I say ‘good’ the word I should probably use is ‘genius.’” He sounded like Kageyama’s proud father, instead of the guy with whom he’d just invented hate eye-sex.

Maybe they really did just hate each other?

“For a long time,” Oikawa lifted his arms, showcasing the back of Kageyama’s head like it was an object in a museum, “it seemed like volleyball was the only place where his skills could be of any real use. And sure, he’s technically very gifted with the physical execution of the sport, a real prodigy actually, but his true brilliance is this…”

Kageyama dropped the stack of papers and immediately began scrawling on a sticky note, which he then smacked onto the blueprints in a way that seemed both painful and satisfying.

“Tobio-chan is very, very good at navigating the world of possibilities. In essence, that’s what a setter does. It’s what I did, but Tobio-chan is much, much better. He can look at the big picture of any situation with circumstances familiar to him, and map out the most efficient and effective way to achieve his goal. Whether that’s getting the ball to a perfectly positioned spiker, or clandestinely repossessing a collection of freshwater pearls, it doesn’t matter. I absolutely cannot do what he does,” he sighed blissfully, as though the knowledge of his own shortcomings made him happy.

“So why involve you at all?” Takahiro blinked, still looking at his cards with displeasure. “I should have just called this guy. He seems quieter. Also less tied to a parole officer.”

Oikawa tweaked his nose, “You’ll see Makki-chan!”

He hooked his arms through Matsukawa and Takahiro’s and steered all three of them towards the couch. “Now, while Tobio-chan stares at papers and writes tiny notes to himself for the next… hmm… six hours, why don’t we continue shoujo Tuesdays!”

“That’s not a thing, also did you just say _six hours_? Because some of us are not criminals and have real jobs in the morning.”

“Sit down, Mattsun! Haru-kun and Shizuku-chan aren’t going to watch _themselves_.”

 

 

“Okay,” Takahiro yawned, “see, I think she should get with that blonde guy. They have _way_ more in common. Also, he isn’t batshit crazy.”

Oikawa gasped as though he’d been slapped, “What’s wrong with you Makki-chan? It’s a fundamental truth of the universe that grumpy stoic characters _need_ refreshing, exciting, _unconventional_ love interests.”

“He broke into her house,” Takahiro gestured to the screen, “asking about a _firefly_.” He buried his face in his hands and muttered in despair, “I can’t handle this shit. I can’t.”

Matsukawa didn’t say anything. He was too annoyed that _once again_ he’d started an anime that lasted only a single season and didn’t cover nearly enough ground. Now he'd have to buy _another_ shoujo manga to read on the train.

Also, it was two o’clock in the morning. He tipped his head back against the couch. Oh well. He’d just sleep here. His phone alarm would wake him up. No one would notice he was sleepy at work, because they _always_ thought he was sleepy at work.

“Nope, no sleeping,” Oikawa was standing, once again yanking them both up by their arms. He was surprisingly strong for someone who’d lost so much muscle mass. “We’re going to check on Tobio-chan. Because I want to show you my part!”

Matsukawa kind of felt like his part could go fuck itself, but he didn’t have the energy to say so.

“Shouldn’t we, you know, _not_ know this stuff? Plausible deniability and all that?” Takahiro snapped. He was too tired and his sass had just devolved into surly. Matsukawa had always thought it was kind of sexy when he got like that.

“Mattsun! Stop staring at Makki-chan’s ass and pay attention! You two wanted this, remember?”

Matsukawa looked at Takahiro behind Oikawa’s back. Their bleary eyes met, full of regret.

Kageyama was in the same seat, and he looked as if he hadn’t moved in the slightest. Not a hair was out of place, his clothes weren’t rumpled from staying so long in one position. Nothing. But he’d obviously been busy, the surface in front of him was so completely full of sticky notes that you couldn’t see the table any more.

“It’s possible. Complicated but possible,” he announced bluntly, handing Oikawa another outline, this one in a much firmer, sloppier hand. “Although I don’t know how you’ll get enough people. Or, more importantly, the finances to do it. Since you were in prison.”

“I haven’t forgotten I was in prison, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa sang as he snatched the papers away. “And don’t you worry your little head. I’ve got plenty of people and _loads_ of cash. Anyway, I thought you weren’t going to participate…” he scanned through the document, “…or are you interested now that you see how much _fun_ it’s going to be? Don’t pretend you haven’t been training. I’ve noticed.”

Kageyama took glowering to new, glorious levels, while Oikawa blithely read through the outline and hummed to himself.

With a very unnecessary clearing of his throat, Kageyama asked, “So. What’s the score?”

“Twenty billion yen…” Takahiro groaned, throwing his head back like a child. He was probably pissed at how long this was all taking because he was exhausted. It was adorable, and Matsukawa wrapped his arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

Kageyama’s eyes took over his entire face at the sum, but he didn’t say yes.

“This is a good plan, Tobio-chan," Oikawa hummed. "You’ve definitely been practicing what I taught you.”

“You didn’t teach me anything," the man spat. "Ever. Even when I asked, you outright refused.”

“So now I’m going to look over this again and figure out who exactly I need to round up,” Oikawa ignored the accusation completely. “Because that's what _I_ do, Mattsun. I'm in charge of building the best team and making sure everyone works to the best of their abilities! Hmmm... okay Tobio-chan this is going to take some thought. But what I can tell you is something even _you_ probably already know: we’ll obviously need a safecracker and a decoy."

Matsukawa thought that Kageyama had run through every possible negative emotion available since he first invaded their home, but at this he turned white as a sheet: it was a new look, more or less.

"So you might as well pop on over to Miyagi and get them. Tomorrow is your day off, isn’t it? You can just take a leave of absence from work while you’re at it. Or,” Oikawa waved dismissively, “quit altogether, you do seem to hate it.”

“I… I can’t… g-g-get…" Kageyama seemed to have forgotten how words worked. "I mean Yachi is fine, but H-Ha-He-Hi...”

“Yes you can, Tobio-chan,” Oikawa rolled his eyes dramatically and sighed.

Maybe… were these two _brothers_ , somehow?

“Get Toka-chan first and then bring her with you to get Shrimpy,” the worst housemate directed. “She’ll know where he is anyway." Oikawa slung his arm around Kageyama and ruffled his hair as if he was a child, "I can’t run a job without Grumpy, Gasps, and Ginger, now can I?”

Kageyama seemed to be searching the floor for a means of escape, “I never said I’d do this.”

“Makki-chan, tell my kouhai who we’re robbing,” Oikawa said dismissively, as though the matter was already settled.

Takahiro wrinkled his nose, “It’s that cun–”

Matsukawa covered his husband’s cute, vulgar, little mouth, “It’s Ushijima Wakatoshi, Kageyama-san.”

Kageyama looked up, color back to normal. There was no hesitation whatsoever in his eyes.

“I’m in.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go eat a steak.
> 
> mad props to my beta @lesetoilesfous on tumblr for generally everything


	4. A shitton of yakuza weed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in addition to some sweet, sweet crime (finally!) this chapter contains some marijuana use. if you wanna skip it, just jump the section set in Asahi's apartment until you get to the middle of fucking nowhere.
> 
> love yourself and do not smoke weed in japan. you will go to japanese nightmare jail for a minimum of five years.

_A back alley at the edge of Kabukicho, noon._

 

Nishinoya was aware of two very important things. First, the sleek black sedan parked headlights-first in the alley had the driver’s side window open a third of the way, which was more than enough. 

Second, the trunk was full of one hundred percent high-quality fucking weed.

There were other less important things, like the fact that the drivers who were across the street grabbing lunch from a ramen place were almost certainly yakuza. Also, that he wasn’t completely sure whether the car’s model would allow the trunk to pop from the inside.

Minor details.

Flipping up the hood of his dark sweatshirt with flair, he smirked to himself. He was even dressed for the occasion.

Had to be a sign.  

The actual approach only took seconds. His hand was grasping the top of the doorframe and with a hop, his feet were balancing on the tiny ledge where the backseat window met the door. Looking down he saw what he expected to see: a number pad instead of the interior lock button, and nothing but a sawed off edge where the manual release would be. It was a car that you couldn’t break into… or, more likely, _get_ _out of_ easily. Kind of terrifying.

But the folks who had so brutally modded this car didn’t anticipate Nishinoya Yuu.

With his free arm he stretched his hand until he was grasping the steering wheel. In that position he had the leeway to shimmy his legs over a bit more and let go of the doorframe. With that hand unrestricted he reached inside the window and down, grasped the interior door handle with the tightest grip that he could manage and braced himself, the muscles in his forearms standing out like steel wires.

And then he lifted, starting with his shoulders, feeling the clench of muscle roll down his spine, reaching his lower back and wrapping around his abs. There was a surge of energy that would look like nothing but fluid motion to anyone watching, and then his ass and legs were held up by nothing but his own strength. He pointed his toes, angling his legs downward, still suspended directly in front of the driver’s side door so that he was more or less hanging out of the window, curled in on himself, only supported by his hand on the interior door handle.

With a smooth motion he rolled his entire body inside.

The interior smelled like stale cigarettes and sweat, which was all the more reason to get the hell out of there lightning fast. He crawled into the backseat and yanked at the middle cushion until it toppled forward, revealing the dark interior of the trunk. Without checking to be sure that he could get out he slid inside, pulling the seat closed behind him.

And he’d made it to his sweet, sweet prize.

Only there was not just weed in there.

In the light from his phone, he saw that on the right that there was, as expected, an open cardboard box full of large ziploc bags stuffed with marijuana. They were probably going out to dealers on a delivery run. On his left was a similar setup. But instead of harmless dried leaves, beauteous products of nature’s bounty, there were shattered white crystals made of batteries and medicine.

Noya took a deep, calming breath. Meth. They had meth. Okay, cool. He could get killed just for _being_ in here.

It was exciting as fuck. 

He turned to the weed and yanked out a single bag, stuffing it into the back of his underwear and reorganizing the rest so it didn’t immediately seem like something was missing. One bag would last for more than a year; it was all he really needed. He had a suspicion that no one would hunt him down for something like that. They’d just cover the cost themselves to save face and their fingers. He just had to make his getaway, and he was golden.

His hand was on the handle to pop the trunk (the owners hadn’t thought to remove it), when he heard the crunch of gravel and two men’s voices arguing about some fucking manga.

Then there was the sound of a car door, and seatbelts. A lighter, and the smell of cigarettes.

The car started.

There were two choices. One: stay with the goons wherever they were going, and hope he could sneak out when they arrived. It could be another stop where he could get out easily. It could also be a locked distribution center full of people who might have guns.

Two: take his chances and run now.

Nishinoya popped the trunk and ran like a bat out of hell.

It took them ten seconds to follow him. By that point, he was pretty certain that he’d already won. He was in his own neighborhood. He knew exactly where to hide, and how to get to those hiding places without being seen. On top of that, the men were smokers and out of shape, while Nishinoya ran ten kilometers every single morning and could climb a brick building with his bare hands.

This was fun, actually.

He passed the bakery, swung himself up on the busted drainpipe, and landed on the roof behind the kitchen. Crawling to the edge and hooking his feet on an old antenna, he reached out until his waist was the last part of him touching the roof. Leaning down, he put a hand on the crumbling relics of what had once been an outdoor oven. It sat less than a meter away from the roof’s edge at the midpoint between the kitchen and the wall separating the bakery from the business behind it. Once he had a good solid anchor he shifted his weight to that hand, flipping over and landing on the wall.

After a quick check to see whether the goons had followed him he dropped down to the next yard. At the back of the building there was a window to the basement covered by a grate. With one more glance to be sure he was unseen, Nishinoya lifted up the grate, slid open the window behind it, and wiggled downwards.

 

Asahi was giving Ryuu a tattoo, a full backpiece by the look of it, when Nishinoya got upstairs. Music was blaring more loudly than normal, probably to cover up Ryuu’s eventual screaming, so neither of them heard the door open. And even though it was _about time_ Ryuu got work done on the tattoo he’d been bragging about getting for years, Nishinoya was getting cold.

“Hey, Asahi,” he yelled, voice sounding like he smoked a pack a day, “can I borrow some clothes?”

Asahi turned his head and looked. Then he stood up to his full height, the headlamp on his forehead lighting up the ceiling, rotary gun still buzzing as he stared. Nishinoya knew that his bright purple boxer briefs were pretty eye-catching, it was why he’d bought them, but Asahi was making it weird.

“Why are you in your underwear, Noya?” he asked softly. It was always kind of funny how someone with neck tattoos and multiple nose piercings managed to look so gentle, but Asahi pulled it off. Maybe it was the bun? Nah, it was those big soulful eyes.

The ones that were really good at making someone feel guilty when he shouldn't have to.

Ryuu immediately sat up.  Various images that were probably going to end up as his tattoo were taped to his naked shoulders, and the wandering lines of the stencil were peeking over his back. “Noyasan’s here? And… he’s naked. Mostly.”

“Hey Ryuu!” Nishinoya fist-bumped the air, and Ryuu returned the gesture. Because he was a solid bro. Not like Asahi, who always wanted _reasons_. Why did you eat three days’ worth of leftovers, Noya? Why’d you steal a gun and throw it in the river, Noya? Why is the bathtub filled with jello, Noya? Why is every dish in the apartment on the living room floor, Noya?

Always riding his ass.

“Wellllll...” Nishinoya stalled while reaching into the back of his underwear and yanking out the bag with a flourish, “I maybe just stole enough weed from some yakuza goons to last us a year.” He avoided eye contact, because Asahi already looked like he was about to lay an egg and, all previous complaints aside, Nishinoya really hated being the one making him pull that face. “Also… uh… I crawled through something rank in the basement. You really gotta get that checked out.”

When he finally looked at them, an enormous smile was lighting up Ryuu’s face. Asahi looked appalled and terrified, as expected.

“I know, right Ryuu?” Nishinoya grinned, choosing to ignore negativity in favor of rapt adoration. “I bet it’s really good stuff. They don’t mess around.”

“They’re going to mess around with your _face!_ ” Asahi squawked. He ran his heavily tattooed hand through his hair, getting it tangled in his headlamp and bun in the process. He was probably smearing whatever sort of lubricant that was on his gloves all over the place.

“We should put it in a different bag, though,” Ryuu stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Since that one’s been down your pants.”

Asahi put down his gun and pulled off his gloves, storming towards Nishinoya, looking actually scary for once.

It was okay, he’d crumble in a minute.

“Noya, I’m serious!” he cried. "Stop messing with those guys. You’re going to get yourself killed! Why do you keep doing this? I’ll just buy you weed if you want it that badly.”

Nishinoya sighed. Of course he didn't get it.

“Because I’m _bored_ , Asahi. Do you know how fucking boring our work is? That is when we have any at all. Climbing around in ductwork and sewers all day? Killing rats? Not even cool stuff like centipedes and hornets and shit that actually puts up a fight. Nope, just rats. Do you have any idea what that's like? No, you don’t, because you own a business that’s actually interesting!”

Asahi winced, and Nishinoya felt like he was kicking a puppy, but he was also pissed and he kind of hated himself because there was really no one but himself to blame for his situation. And just like always, Asahi was gonna make it his fault too.

“I’m just sick of doing something I hate,” he said in a more restrained voice. “There’s only one job I can _really_ do and it’s completely illegal.”

The door bell rang as a customer came in. It took a moment, but Nishinoya remembered that he was wearing mostly nothing. By the look on Asahi’s face, he hadn’t forgotten for a second.

“Yo~ho~, boys!” called a very recognizable voice. “Oh. Am I _interrupting_ something?”

Nothing like someone just out of jail to diffuse a situation.  

“Tooru-san!” Nishinoya beamed just as Asahi’s face fell.

“Welcome back!” he waved the bag in the air. “I just stole a _shitton_ of yakuza weed. Wanna get high with us?”

 

 

 _Some_ _train that connected with the Akita Shinkansen, heading northeast, 1pm_

 

The thing was, Yachi didn’t live in Miyagi anymore. She and Kiyoko lived in a tiny village far to the northeast. It was an eight-hour train ride just to get to the nearest station and an hour’s walk to their home. So Kageyama had plenty of time to think.

Plenty of unwanted time.

Thankfully he slept through three quarters of the trip. He’d always been able to pass out more or less anywhere, and a moving vehicle was an easier spot than most. He slept over the sound of crying babies, a couple having a very loud fight, and an obstruction on the rails that had the entire train car chattering worriedly. But when the smell of the food cart woke him up, he couldn't fall back to sleep no matter how hard he tried. This was mostly because he was hungry, but the cart had already passed on to the next car by that point so he was shit out of luck. It was also because he was on a trip that was forcing him to address the thing he wanted to think about least, and now that he was awake he couldn’t stop doing exactly that. So he tried to ask himself another similar but less loaded question.

_Why was he doing this?_

Fucking over Ushijima was the easy answer. Honestly, though he'd just been the final straw. Revenge was nice to some people maybe, but Kageyama had never really considered it much motivation for anything. It seemed like a waste. If you hated someone, wouldn’t you want to not think about them? If you were focusing on revenge, you weren’t focusing on what you actually wanted to do.

To be fair Ushijima _had_ taken that away from him, so maybe it was worth it to give him some payback? Kageyama had no idea, but it wasn’t motivating him the way it was obviously motivating Oikawa.

A billion yen give or take and all to himself was also kind of convincing. Not as much as you’d expect, though. At this point he didn't know what to do with the money he already had from all their old jobs. On top of his savings scattered through difficult-to-trace foreign accounts was the legal and respectable job that, though he hated it, was paying him well. He didn’t know what else he could spend it on. At this point his parents were starting to question the luxury vacations he was sending them on every year. The anonymous donations he was directing to the youth sports center he’d gone to as a kid were probably just enough to be frustrating. Although they were a lot to the average person, they couldn't support permanent full time staff, or the kind of renovations that the place needed.

So while the kind of cut a job like this would bring in would help youth sports in rural Miyagi, it certainly wouldn't help Kageyama any. He had always lived a very spartan lifestyle and he had no desire to change that. He splurged on food a lot, but he also only ate when he was hungry; which was not enough to put a drain on his finances at all. Even the most expensive motorcycle in the world probably didn't cost a billion yen. If it did, it'd be too flashy for him anyway.

So it wasn’t the money either.

Really, he'd pretty much decided he was in the minute the setup for the job started coming together in his head.

When those pieces started to fall into place, and he could see them, all the players, all the paths, all the moves simultaneously strung up in time, it felt like his mind was waking up after a long sleep. He felt good. It was like he was doing something that he was designed to do.

Invigorating.

It was the kind of excitement that he had felt playing volleyball in high school, when all that mattered was how good you were and how well you meshed with your team. The way that it felt before he went pro and the bullshit politics that even _Oikawa_ couldn't handle had decimated Kageyama’s enjoyment of the sport. It was the kind of thrill he’d felt again after everything he’d expected out of his athletic career (hell, out of his life) went to shit and he found out that being good at something didn’t necessarily make it legal.

That kind of real exhilaration hinged on the use of Kageyama’s own skills, whether it was in the court or on the job. He couldn’t just sit back and watch. There was no question that this plan, the most elaborate he’d ever written, would have to be tweaked on the fly, and despite what else Oikawa could do, which was admittedly a lot, he _couldn't do that_. At least not on the level that Kageyama knew he could himself. Or… maybe… that they could together.

Ugh.

On top of that, Kageyama had gotten so much better since their last job in the hope that... well, there was no point in focusing on that now. He wasn’t in control of that anymore.

Not that he ever had been.

So he was in. Part of an insane job with more moving parts than a fast car. The greatest risk to which he’d ever been exposed. But the cost didn’t seem as steep when he compared it to the relentless monotony that was his life. From what he understood of prison, he'd more or less be alright. He didn't much like talking to begin with, he could sleep anywhere and he could eat pretty much anything. He’d miss curry and riding his motorcycle and his parents and that old grandma’s blind dog. But he’d live.

He could understand how it would be a nightmare for someone as desperate for attention as Oikawa. Or any friendly, talkative, outgoing person, who should be doing absolutely anything other than the kind of work that might end him up...

The recorded voice over the loudspeaker announcing his destination interrupted his impending agony.

Oikawa would get the two people Kageyama least wanted to expose to risk on board whether he was involved or not. The son of a bitch had arranged things so Kageyama couldn't avoid it. And if he wasn't involved, he couldn't protect them.

Well, Yachi could look after herself and beyond that was pretty well guarded.

The issue was, he couldn't protect _him_.

 

 

_Azumane Asahi’s apartment, 2pm_

“So you’re telling me they broke up?” Ryuu’s eyes were huge as he chewed. "Ran into Kageyama just the other day and he didn't say shit!"

“Quite some time ago, I’m afraid,” Tooru blew out a long ribbon of smoke. “Though,” he added thoughtfully, “I didn’t realize it’d be such a national tragedy. Everyone goes into mourning the instant they hear.”

“It’s like, I can’t even believe in love anymore…” Ryuu said to his hand as though it were part of the conversation. “Between that, and you and–”

“Would you like some more pizza, Oikawa-san?” Asahi interrupted, holding up a slice of something that was about eighty-seven percent grease. Nishinoya wanted immediately to put it in his mouth, despite the fact that he had his own.

“Oh Asa-chan,” Tooru gushed, pulling the pizza close like he was holding a baby. “You’re always such a sweetheart. It’s like… even if I don’t have a place for you on a job, I want you there. No matter what. Because you’re so sweet. Here,” he thrust the joint in Asahi’s general direction, “you’ve been too generous with us, you need some too.”

Nishinoya reached out and plucked it from Tooru’s hand. “Asahi doesn’t smoke, Tooru-san. Weed and nerves don’t mix.”

“Oh man,” Ryuu said slowly, still to his hand, “that one time, he pretty much destroyed you guys’ room, he got so crazy. And then he just cried for _hours_.”

“Tanaka… please,” Asahi wince.

 “Now now, don’t embarrass him,” Tooru chided. “He’s just a big, gentle, sweetheart who does good… oh!” he snapped his fingers. “ _Now_ I remember why I’m here.”

“Why’s that?” Ryuu asked his hand.

"Well, first of all, Asa-chan, will you give me a job? As a receptionist or your web designer or something. It doesn't matter to me. I'll pay you."

Asahi looked confused, "Uh... yeah, of course but... don’t jobs normally work the other way around? I mean, I can’t pay much, but I could still..."

"Oh, no no no," Tooru laughed, "I'm not going to do any actual _work_. I just want you to tell my parole officer I’m your employee when he calls."

Asahi cleared his throat, "Ah yeah, sure. I can do that. I've always wanted a receptionist, actually,” he laughed nervously. “I get kind of nervous, talking to clients on the phone..."

Nishinoya started chuckling to himself, because Asahi stuttering apologetically on the phone was one of the great highlights of his life.

"Alright," Tooru clapped, "that was only part one! The rest is for _all_ of you..."

Nishinoya felt a little bit of a tingle in his spine that even the numbness from the smoke couldn’t cover. "Oh yeah...?"

Tooru leaned forward, smiling like a little kid.

“I’m going to steal an insane amount of money from an asshole, and I want you all to help.”

“We’re in,” Ryuu and Nishinoya said at more or less the same time, though the speed at which they said it was pretty different.

“C-could we maybe hear about the job first, Oikawa-san?” Asahi was _raising his hand_. “What you want us to do? I definitely can’t be a decoy. I’m a really bad actor.” He immediately took a bite of pizza to hide how panicked he was.

Nishinoya slapped the man’s broad back back encouragingly, but it just made him spit out the bite he’d just taken.

Tooru held up his finger to start an explanation, then got distracted by his fingernail. Asahi sighed.

“Don’t worry so much, babe,” Nishinoya smiled fondly, realizing he was still in his underwear, and feeling pretty great about it. “We’re gonna say yes no matter what it is…”

 

 

_The middle of fucking nowhere, 4pm_

 

The walk to Yachi and Kyoko’s house from the train station was four miles on dusty roads that were only paved about a quarter of the way. The last time Kageyama had been there they’d driven. It had been the final stop on a road trip that had included his parents’ house, _his_ parents house, a bunch of onsen, and their old high school.

It had been really fun and he didn’t want to remember it ever again.

That was easier than he expected. Everything looked different when you were walking, although he could do without the dust. At least it wasn’t rainy yet; then he’d be making his way through the mud. He was a mess when he showed up at their door anyway.

He’d called when he left Tokyo, telling them he was coming to talk about a job, but he hadn’t been particularly specific as to when he’d arrive. Yachi hadn’t asked either, she’d been too flustered and had actually hung up on him. He wasn’t worried about that. It wasn’t like they went anywhere anyway.

“Kageyama-kun?” the faint, soft voice behind the door asked as it swung open. “Why didn’t you call? I could have driven to pick you up.”

“The walk was fine,” he responded. Yachi’s wife Kiyoko gestured for him to come into the small but immaculate country house where they lived. 

Yachi Kiyoko was a remarkable person for a lot of reasons. People on the street stopped to stare at her beauty. People in the business respected the well-honed skills of her trade. But Kageyama most appreciated how little she expected a person to speak. It was a relief to be around her because he never had to force conversation and he never felt awkward about it. She was shy, he was whatever it was that he was, and they got along fine in silence.

“Hitoka is making some repairs at the school,” she said several minutes later, when his shoes were off and he’d gulped down two glasses of water. “Would you like to take a bath before she comes back?”

He nodded gratefully through a layer of grime and she smiled, leading him down the hall. 

“I assume you’re spending the night?” the corner of her mouth lifted as she showed him the door to the bathroom and he knew she was about to make a very small joke. “If not, you might want to head back right now, so you can catch the last train.”

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Not at all. We don’t get guests often. I don’t mind, but Hitoka misses the company.”

Kageyama didn’t know what to say so he just nodded and made to walk into the bathroom. He didn’t get far. Kiyoko’s graceful hand pressed against his chest, stopping him with controlled but undeniable force. The realization that she could likely shatter his sternum with a harder strike might have made someone else nervous, but not him.

“If you could please tell us about the job tonight,” she said, looking at the wall, “so she and I can…”

He put his hand on her shoulder and patted it once, then twice, as he nodded. There were a lot of things she might have felt like she had to say, but he didn’t want to make her say any of them.

“Got it.”

  

“Wait, y-you w-want _me_?” Yachi squeaked, clawing at the neck of her shirt. “I thought for certain it was Kiyoko. I mean, she’s so… and I’m just…”

She was sitting on an outdoor couch next to Kiyoko, while Kageyama was leaning forward in a nearby chair. The enormous garden was almost completely silent except for the quiet sound of water circulating in their koi pond. The night was very dark, with only a small lantern on a table. He hadn’t understood why they’d left it that way until Kiyoko had pointed out something in the sky to Yachi.

The night sky was absolutely tremendous. He’d spent plenty of time in his life looking up at stars, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen quite so many. They made him feel very small, which was normally comforting.

But they weren’t that comforting when he was making one of his very few friends absolutely freak out.

He didn’t know why he was the one doing this. Oikawa was the convincing one. Well, for most people. Personally Kageyama found the senpai he’d once been desperate to impress as compelling as gum that he’d stepped in on a sidewalk. He was something unwanted that required his immediate attention. Nonetheless, he felt kind of lost without the other man around. He knew Yachi was vital to this job, and he could tell her that, as well as what her role was supposed to be. But it was not going to sound the same as it would if it was Oikawa saying it.

Yachi’s wife turned to her before he had the chance to even try, “You assumed Oikawa-san would want me? He and I have never worked together before. I don’t even know what he looks like up close.” She smiled a little, “I really doubt he could afford me, to be honest…”

“We don’t want anyone killed,” Kageyama added, in what he hoped was an optimistic tone.

Yachi blanched even whiter and put her head in her hands.

Kiyoko rested her fingers on her wife’s smaller thigh, “I’m retired anyway, so you don’t need to worry, ‘Toka.”

“I can’t believe I did it again,” Yachi moaned through her fingers. “I didn’t mean to assume that you’d want someone _killed_ for a job, Tobio-kun. But I just… Kiyoko is so much better at stealth than I am. I still don’t see why you’d even want someone so nervous around. I mean, what if it’s hot and I sweat so much that I drip my DNA all over the place? Or I catch my glove on something that tears it and leave fingerprints just everywhere? I might get my shirt caught on a fire alarm and pull it and then everyone would know. I’m so clumsy and what about pressure sensitivity…?”

In the faint light he could see Kiyoko gently stroking her hand. Silently. That meant it was his job to say something.

“You’re good at what you do, once you do it,” Kageyama said forcefully. “And you know how to get out on your own if things go bad.”

They were the facts, the most important ones he could think of, but they clearly weren’t enough. So now he was entering into unfamiliar territory and trying to be more encouraging, “It’s just the… leading up to it when you’re nervous. Because you’re practicing in your head. But… that’s what makes you so good. Too. At this.”

And that was his next six months of encouragement all used up in thirty seconds.

Yachi looked up, a few tears running down her cheeks, and then she burst into a broad smile.

“You know,” she began, looking so relieved Kageyama almost smiled himself, “Shouyou says something very similar That the reason I’m so fast is _because_ I’m so anxious. That I worry about about all the combinations before I even get to the safe, and then it’s just easy to run through them all.”

“He doesn’t understand how combination locks work,” Kageyama said flatly, really glad he hadn’t smiled. 

Yachi’s own smile fell with the realization of what she’d done, “Sorry Tobio-kun, I… shouldn’t have mentioned him.”

“No, it’s fine,” he held up his hand like he could stop her from worrying with his fingers. “Because we’re… uh… going to his place next. That is, if you’ll come, since I have no idea where he is. Or just tell me if you decide not to join up.”

“You mean…” her eyes were wide, and he pretended not to notice the elation there, “…you’re getting back together?”

Kiyoko coughed delicately and he wanted to kiss her. The second person in his life he’d ever wanted to kiss: a happily married lesbian.

“Sorry,” Yachi looked up at the stars, “I got ahead of myself again. Can you, um, tell me the details? I know you probably can’t give me specifics, or where, but I need to know what I’m signing up for physically.”

Kageyama almost grinned, finally feeling in his element. But then he remembered at the last instant that he’d look more terrifying than eager and simply tried to scowl less instead.

“You’ll need to jump down an elevator shaft and break a safe,” he explained. “You’ll be in the company of two others at the time.”

“Two? Just how many people will be on this job…?” Yachi asked nervously.

He looked up, mentally counting, “Fifteen, I think.”

“Fifteen?? It’ll cost me more to get a train down there than we’ll even make per person!”

“What is the payout, Kageyama-kun?” Kiyoko demanded, pretty unexpectedly.

“Twenty billion. So the least you can expect is about a billion yen when it’s all said and done.”

Kiyoko blinked rapidly, looking surprised.

“Actually, _the least_ I can expect is to get put in jail,” Yachi sighed unhappily.

“Kiyoko-san would break you out,” Kageyama said, realizing as he did that Kiyoko herself was saying the same thing.

Yachi leaned forward, and he could see the light of the lantern catching on the ends of her pixie cut in bright golden flashes. The new look suited her. It made her face shape look... Nice. She took a deep breath.

“The target’s not yakuza, right?”

“No," he assured her. "No one that organized. Not government either. We think they would like to avoid investigation themselves, so they’re very unlikely to call the police if we pull it off.”

“That’s good, but…" she sat up and wrung her hands, "I don’t know how to jump down an elevator shaft…”

Kageyama blinked. He hadn’t really thought about that. He’d always just practiced whatever it was he had to physically do until he could do it. It didn’t really matter, although he did really hate jumping off buildings. And probably down elevator shafts too. So he could sympathize.

“It would be on a wire. Probably with someone you’ve worked with before. And a gymnast.”

That… had not been very convincing.

Yachi sat up straight, her hands fisted on her thighs. “Okay,” she nodded, almost more to herself than anybody else. “I need to think about it. Can I take you to Shouyou tomorrow and then decide once we’re there? Kiyoko and I need to talk about it and he tends to… help…”

“Sure,” Kageyama nodded, not feeling very sure at all.

 

The thing was, sleeping eighteen hours in one day made sleeping the following night almost impossible. Even for Kageyama. And at three in the morning, with a pillow held down over his ears, he had no idea how much longer Yachi and Kiyoko were going to… talk… but he was entirely certain that Kiyoko was, in fact, much louder than she seemed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also she's an assassin.


	5. Dead Meat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leftover mentions of drug use at the very beginning, but it's really not much, also a brief mention of miscarriage.

_Azumane Asahi’s apartment, 9am_

 

Noya hadn’t lied – the weed _was_ good. Tanaka woke up on the couch in Asahi’s one-bedroom apartment feeling well-rested, with clear eyes and a clear head. His throat wasn’t even dry. Asahi and Noya were nowhere in sight, which he knew better than to comment on, even to himself. Oikawa was curled up in the fetal position on the floor without so much as a pillow. Right next to him a humidifier was humming, which was probably the real reason why Tanaka felt so good.

He didn’t want to get up (Asahi’s couch was surprisingly comfortable) but he had to piss. The eternal dilemma. He had just decided that he was going to hurt the chances of carrying on the Tanaka family line if he didn’t go when a siren went off at the nearby fire station.

Tanaka jumped a little in surprise. It was Oikawa’s reaction that was really something to see. He scrambled to his feet almost immediately, standing up military straight but keeping his eyes locked on the floor. He stayed that way, as if he expected something terrible to happen if he moved.

It was weird to pity other guys. Tanaka didn’t like to do it: felt like he was emasculating them and being condescending at the same time. Not something any man deserved. Besides, Tanaka was just a regular guy who could throw a pretty decent punch. He wasn’t in a position to decide how fucked up somebody was. But it was almost impossible to avoid feeling _something_ in this situation. He didn’t know Oikawa well at all; he’d just been the muscle on some jobs because of his sister, but Tanaka knew he hadn’t been like this before. And this… was pretty awful. The guy seemed to be shaking.

So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He pretended that he hadn’t seen anything

“Wow,” Tanaka faked a yawn, the sound jolting Oikawa out of his… episode, or whatever it was. “I haven’t slept that good in a _damn_ while.” He made a show of scanning the room, acting like he was seeing the other man for the first time, “oh, you’re awake?”

Oikawa’s hair was pressed flat on one side of his head, like someone had glued a pancake there. He looked very confused and mostly asleep. It was like what had happened before was some kind of terrible habit.

This was so fucking awkward. Tanaka had never seen this dude interact one on one with anyone. And now he was supposed to do it. What was he going to say? The only things they had in common were crime things, which they weren’t supposed to talk about.

“Can you tell me where the bathroom is?” Oikawa asked like a completely normal person.

Tanaka jumped up from the couch, “Oh yeah, definitely. Had to go myself, in fact.”

 _Real smooth, Ryuu_.

Oikawa laughed, again like a normal person, and Tanaka felt like reality had become very, very confusing.

 

 

“Asa-chan, you really are selling yourself short,” Oikawa said with a mouth full of the taller man’s pancakes. “There’s no question that you’ll be able to do this. Although naturally I’d never force anyone to do anything…”

Tanaka glanced over at Noya. It seemed like his best friend didn’t share Oikawa’s philosophy. But considering the way things were between Asahi and Noya, that wasn't his business. Noya's pressuring typically got good results. Asahi wouldn't have a tattoo shop at all if it weren't for Noya telling him to stop being such a damn coward. And if it weren’t for Asahi, Noya would have never gone to rehab. So Tanaka wasn’t going to get himself into that dynamic.

"I just don't look that intimidating!" the man with half his body covered in tattoos waved his spatula. "Especially not enough to get a job as an off-the-books casino enforcer on a walk-in!"

"Asa-chan, excuse me for disagreeing, but you have the English words 'dead meat' tattooed on your knuckles," Oikawa sipped his coffee over Asahi’s protests that it had been a translation error.

"Anyone who's man enough to get his dick pierced twice can suck it up and look scary for a few hours," Noya tore into his pancake like an animal.

Tanaka did not need to know that. And Asahi definitely didn't want him or anyone else to know that, because he was so flustered he spilled the rest of the pancake batter all over the kitchen floor.

"I'm not exactly thrilled about pretending to grope someone, even if they're on our team and give full consent. Definitely not thrilled about maybe getting the shit beat out of me by security," Tanaka offered, eager to not talk about Asahi's dick anymore, "but you gotta do what you gotta do, man. Us normal guys have to take whatever shit's left after geniuses like Noyasan do their work."

Noya beamed, then vaulted over the breakfast bar to get to Asahi. Whether it was to help with the mess or harangue the guy some more, Tanaka wasn't sure. He decided to let them be.

Which left him alone with Oikawa again. More or less.

After about five minutes spent trying very hard not to listen to his best friends bicker, Tanaka figured out that Oikawa was really quiet when he didn't seem to have some kind of goal. The guy was eating pancakes, but his mind seemed a million miles away with no interest in filling the silence. Tanaka didn't have the slightest clue how to be sociable in this situation or even if he should. But he remembered the siren earlier and thought that maybe the guy had forgotten how to be around people on top of everything else.

"Anywhere you wanna drive today?" he found himself offering. "I got the truck, and nothin' to do. Don't mind being chauffeur. After all, I owe you one."

Oikawa blinked, like he hadn't fully realized he was there.

"That's… incredibly nice of you," he said, sounding authentically shocked instead of like a game show host.

Tanaka scratched the back of his head. His hair was getting long, he was gonna have to ask Saeko to buzz it for him.

"I mean, it's what anyone would do. I think."

"Hm," Oikawa hummed. "You'd be surprised. Actually I do have somewhere I'd very much like to go. And you’re probably the one who should take me..."

 

_The Tohoku Shinkansen to Sendai, 10:30 am_

 

Hitoka was so, so glad to be on the train to Sendai with Tobio for three reasons.

First of all, she had missed him tons. Of course, she’d never gotten quite as close to Tobio as she had to Shouyou, but that was more due to their respective personalities than because she liked Shouyou more. Shouyou just made himself really easy to know, and Hitoka had always been a little timid.

Tobio was what she always imagined a brother to be like. Not necessarily a confidante, but someone who would protect her and care for her no matter what. So his presence was reassuring always. Now that they were on the train, when he was awake he’d point out anything interesting he saw to her, otherwise he was silent unless she brought something up.

At one point he fell asleep and his head lolled onto her shoulder. It probably seemed inappropriate for them to be like that in public, and a few grandmas looked at them disapprovingly. She wanted to tell them they were barking up the wrong tree because she was married to a wonderful woman, but that seemed even worse so she just tried her best to ignore their glares.

The second reason she was glad that Tobio was with her was because Shouyou really needed to talk to him. As soon as she’d realized that he was their next destination she had resolved to make them talk, even if it killed her. They didn’t have to get back together or even be friends again but the amount of unresolved _everything_ between them was insane. Especially when it came to Shouyou. If she had to hear one more time about some budding romance (like the one with that Aone guy who had sounded like _such_ a sweetheart) which had self-destructed all because her friend hadn’t dealt with all of his Kageyama Tobio-related issues, she was going to lose her mind.

The third reason was that she was lonely. Even if it was just to see Shouyou, Tobio was taking her somewhere exciting. Hitoka had understood when they got married that Kiyoko needed to live far from prying eyes. She’d thought she understood the sacrifice she was making, although she didn’t like to use that word. You always give up some opportunities when you made a choice, it didn’t mean the choice you made was wrong. So she had understood somewhat, but lately seeing nothing but small children and the elderly had made her long for, well, exactly the sort of thing that Tobio had asked her to do. The excitement of a job, of being on a team where the silly little hobby that she’d learned for an elementary school talent show was recognized as being immensely valuable made her shiver.

And the fear of getting caught made her shake.

So even though she was torn over the actual reason for her journey, she was glad to be on the train with her friend.

But the closer they got to Sendai the more… aggravating being on the train with him started to be. He woke up just as she bought two salmon onigiri from the food cart, too sleepy to order anything himself. He’d already inhaled whatever it was that he’d brought along so she didn’t think he needed more. But she was wrong. The more he woke up, the more he just stared at her while she ate until she caved, offering him the second onigiri and telling her own hungry stomach to calm down. She thought that he’d be settled after that, but she was wrong again.

He started tapping his foot, loudly, and rubbing the tips of his fingers together like he was losing money at a race track. It was as though someone had taken Shouyou’s attention span and put it in Tobio’s body. People around them started to notice the unnecessary noise he was making, and Hitoka came to the nervous realization that maybe seeing Shouyou like this, after so long, was a bad idea for someone who was comfortable identifying a maximum of two emotions.

“Are y-you alright, Tobio-kun?” she put her hand on the knee that was rattling the train car so hard they were going to derail. “We don’t have to do this…”

He looked down at her, scowling, and she quavered a little before gathering her resolve and staring back at him. “Your mental health is more important than any job.”

“Maybe. But this job will improve my mental health,” he said it in the same matter-of-fact way he announced he was thirsty or asked for another beer or told Shouyou that he loved him (before, of course) or said pretty much anything when he wasn’t angry.

Hitoka nodded, “’kay. Do you want to… talk about anything before we get there? It’s only a short walk from the train station to his work so...” She fully expected him to say no. She’d offered for years, both because she wanted to help and also because she knew that he didn’t have anyone else to talk to and that made her so sad she could cry.

But he surprised her.

“It took,” he said to the back of the seat in front of him, “a really long time for us to get together. All of high school. A year of university. And then.”

His hands were in fists on his knees.

“It seemed like just a minute and it was done.”

Hitoka wrapped her hand around the front of his fist, because it was all that fit between her fingers.

“Don’t tell Shouyou,” she said softly, knowing it was probably the wrong thing, giving him encouragement and making it sound like the other man really truly wanted nothing to do with him all at once. But she couldn’t help herself, “I’m still rooting for you, Tobio-kun.”

 

 

_The Tsukishima residence, 11 am_

 

Even though they’d eaten breakfast just two hours before, and Oikawa had eaten an entire loaf of milk bread in the car, Tanaka’s sister was making french toast. She was going all-out wearing the apron Noya had bought her for her birthday, the one that had the body of a naked man printed on the front of it as if it was her own.  

Seeing it on her always made Tanaka feel kind of gross.

Now that there was someone to impress Oikawa was gabby and sparkly and charming again. He seemed to have taken his morning in the truck with Tanaka as time to reflect on things, and Tanaka didn’t know what to think about that. He suspected that out of the whole enterprise he was probably the most easily replaceable. It couldn’t be that hard to find muscle for hire. Tanaka just happened to be attached to Saeko and Noya, and they couldn’t very well leave him out. So it made sense that Oikawa didn’t have to perform for him.

Still felt sort of weird though.

His sister was guffawing at something Oikawa had said, then she slapped him on the back. She looked momentarily shocked when her hand hit, but for once she didn’t say anything. Which was kind of a miracle considering that Saeko wasn’t exactly subtle.

“You’re gonna stay for lunch, aren’t you?” she demanded more than asked. “I’ll have ‘Teru stop on his way home to grab some meat. He’s been aching for yakiniku.”

Oikawa replied that of course, how could he say no? Or something equally charming. Saeko laughed and Tanaka headed out to their tiny backyard to set up the shichirin and get it hot enough to cook on. He’d been out there for a while, maybe an hour, he’d lost track of time, when his brother-in-law slid open the door.

“So. You didn’t tell us the fairy godfather of crime was back in town,” Akiteru said, setting down a plate of sliced vegetables and folding his long legs to sit down.

“Just found out last night. And he wanted to surprise you,” Tanaka shrugged. “I dunno, I’m just the muscle guy. Not very important”

Akiteru smiled, “Are you kidding? He sure was pleased to have you around this morning. He just spent the last five minutes telling us how ‘calming’ you were.”  

Tanaka chuckled, “First time in my life I’ve been called that.”

“I dunno man,” Akiteru stood up and tested the shichirin with a flick of water to see how hot it was, “you’re pretty chill when you aren’t fired up. At least you have been since I’ve known you.”

“I’ve maybe mellowed out some,” Tanaka admitted, standing up as well. “But I can still run hard with the rest of ‘em.”

“Harder.” The taller man began to put root vegetables on the hot metal where they sizzled.

“You’re only saying that cause I let you marry my sister,” Tanaka snorted, pretending to himself that he had ever had the power to keep Saeko from doing anything at all. She’d probably be the one who told him whether he could get married or not. But it was nice to pretend.

 “Speaking of that…” Akiteru cleared his throat. “We weren’t gonna tell you quite yet but, well, I guess you probably know that Oikawa just offered us a job in there.”

Tanaka nodded. Oikawa hadn’t exactly told him, but it was kind of obvious that was what he’d wanted.

“We had to turn him down,” his brother-in-law revealed unexpectedly. “So I figured maybe I should tell you why. Just in case things get crazy, you know?”

“Huh?” Tanaka had no idea what he could possibly mean. Had they become undercover cops? Were they dying? Had he somehow gotten a worthwhile job but they were moving to Australia?

“Saeko’s pregnant,” Akiteru gave him a little nervous smile and Tanaka beamed back, ready to jump in the air and whoop. But his brother-in-law kept talking, “so we can’t take any jobs. If one of us went to jail it’d be really rough. Even the job stress would be dangerous: she’s already miscarried twice.”

He didn’t feel much like whooping anymore.

Between his own sister, and Noya’s _four_ sisters, Tanaka knew that pregnancies didn’t work out a lot more often than people let on. But there was a difference between hearing about it in the abstract and knowing it had happened to someone he loved. There was no one he could punch in the face, or hit with a baseball bat. Just. Terrible luck. He grabbed the small rake he’d been using to stoke the coals and clenched it until it was bent. 

“We decided we wouldn’t tell anyone, well, other than Oikawa, until she’s through the first trimester,” Akiteru continued, looking miserable, but also suspiciously twitchy. “That said, I know she _wants_ you to know, but she couldn’t handle having to tell you if she lost the baby again. This way — well, she doesn’t have to.” 

Tanaka narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, “You have a really interesting way of being a liar, Tsukishima. Making it sound like it’s in somebody’s best interests.”

Akiteru’s face blanched. He was a good guy, Tanaka knew that, but it was probably hard to get over a decade of identity theft, online swindling, insurance fraud, and all the other ways a person can make a living on lies.

“I’m sorry!” his face twisted up and he looked more than sorry, he looked wretched. “But this has all been pretty hard for me too! And Saeko, she has your grandma to talk to, and I don’t really… I could talk to Kei, I guess, but…”

Tanaka laughed, probably too loudly for the situation, but he’d never really learned how to laugh quietly. “Hey man, if you had just told me you were breaking your promise because _you_ were freaking out, I would have gotten a hell of a lot less pissed. I don’t know shit about kids, but I’ll listen.”

“I’m such a fuckup!” Akiteru wailed. The floodgates were down, and now Tanaka was left to deal with a very unexpected emotional breakdown. “I finally managed to get her pregnant, instead of breaking her heart all the time, but who knows what will happen? And how am I supposed to be a good dad? How are we going to afford a child? What if we have too many?? I know your grandmother was a twin, they run in families and…”

The sound of the screen door opening shut him up immediately, and Tanaka was pretty impressed at how quickly his brother-in-law’s face went from “absolutely freaking out” to “calmly grilling vegetables.”

Tanaka liked him, but he also wanted to punch him in the face.

 

_The Wounded Crow, Sendai, eleven thirty am._

 

It struck Hitoka as they reached their destination that she hadn’t told Tobio something important. Namely that one of his ex-boyfriend’s many jobs: the one that made the most money, and the one at which they were going to meet him, was in a strip club. The Wounded Crow was tasteful, at least from the outside. A nondescript building with nothing but its namesake’s silhouette hanging over the door to even indicate it was a business. And, of course Tobio didn’t know this, but it was very forward-thinking, with queer Saturdays, and aggressive bouncers who made certain the dancers were treated with dignity, like professionals.

But it was still a strip club. Even Tobio figured that out when they went inside, seeing the poles and the stage and the roped off private area and the frankly quite beautiful paintings of naked bodies splashed all over the walls. Hitoka nervously glanced up at him. Instead of scowling his face was unreadable, which was even worse.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice called out on their right, “but we’re not open for the day yet… oh! Yaichi-san!”

“Take-chan!” Hitoka waved at the small, dark-haired, bespectacled man behind the bar. He and another man, a giant with pale hair and no eyebrows whom she’d never seen before, were doing inventory. Bottles stood haphazardly on the polished wooden surface instead of stacked on the shelving behind it. 

“I know it’s a mess, but why don’t you and your friend come over, and I’ll make you two a drink?” the man asked. “On the house, of course. I promise not to tell the guy who owns the place,” he winked.

She looked up at Tobio and he nodded, probably because he didn’t know what else to do. 

“Hinata-kun’s practicing,” Takeda continued when they reached the bar, “so he might be a few minutes. You know how he gets when he’s focused on something.”

“Impossible,” Tobio answered immediately, earning himself a glare from the giant.

Oh, yeah, she needed to make introductions, “Take-chan, this is my dear friend, Kageyama Tobio.” Takeda smiled and nodded, “and Tobio-kun, this is Takeda Ittetsu, the owner of this club and a former member of the Diet. He actually authored the bill on marriage equality.”

Tobio’s jaw dropped and he bowed almost to the floor where he yelled, “Very nice to meet you! Thank you so much!” so loudly that Shouyou probably heard him wherever he was.

Takeda blushed, “No need for that. I'm just very good at browbeating. I wouldn't leave the other representatives alone till they promised to vote yes. And I have to say, you’re quite the famous face here too...”

Hitoka shook her head vigorously, miming hair, a volleyball and crossing her arms, hoping Takeda would get the point before Tobio stood up from his bow.

With a nervous laugh Takeda continued, “Hitoka does talk a lot about her friends when she’s here, after all.”

Three drinks slid down the bar, ostensibly from the silent giant. Ostensibly, since he gave no indication of having prepared them, that they should enjoy them, or even what they were.

“Thank you, Aone. Shall we?” Takeda lifted his glass as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “Oh and by the way, this is Aone Takanobu, my head of security and a bartender-in training.”

Oh. _That_ was Aone.

Hitoka tried to surreptitiously look at the man while she tilted back her glass, but he was too tall, and the drink just ended up spilling down her neck. She gave up for the time being and focused on the task at hand. As the liquid slid down her throat, crisp and citrusy and delicious, the soft piano music that had been playing softly since they came in shifted to something much louder.

And much sexier.

She wouldn’t have thought to turn around, but peeking at Aone she noticed his stern face soften just the tiniest bit as he looked across the club.

And then Tobio’s glass shattered on the floor. She spun to look at him. He was completely white, like he’d just seen his own death. She spun another quarter turn to see what he was looking at and almost dropped her glass as well.

Suddenly, the messages she’d been getting started to make sense:

_yacchan im learning to dance!!11111_

_this si so hardddd worse then volleyball was…  D:_

_u shuld see my arms now their crazy strong!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Because Hinata Shouyou was, among many other things, a _remarkable_ pole dancer.

 

_The Tsukishima residence, noon_

 

 “So you need somebody who can drive real good?” Saeko asked with her mouth full of delicious grilled meat. “I wish I could say I know somebody Tooru. But I kinda fell into this by accident, you know? I don’t think I’ve got a single connection. You should ask that one guy you know… the cat burglar. You know, the one with the crazy hair? He prolly knows _somebody_ who drives fast.”

“And maybe a little less reckless…” Tanaka muttered, earning himself a smack in the back of the head.

Oikawa didn’t answer. It looked like the gears in his head were turning again.

“In terms of a hacker,” Akiteru cleared his throat, “I think you should ask my brother.”

The Tanaka siblings jointly choked, earning a curious look from Oikawa and a glare from Akiteru.

“You want him to ask _Kei_?” Saeko was the first to recover, although she had a hard time talking because she was cackling so much. “Tsukishima- _sensei_? Why would he want a job? He’s a fucking professor, ‘Teru!”

“And an asshole,” Tanaka added, because he really, really was.

Oikawa smiled, “I don’t know if you remember, Ryuu-chan, but I don’t exactly surround myself with nice people. I mean, my par…” whatever he was about to say revolted him, and he looked like he was about to puke. With a shake of his head he recovered, speaking in a calm, gentle voice, “…my most valuable associate is the absolute worst. I fucking hate him, and I believe the feeling’s mutual.”

Tanaka scoffed, leaning over the grill to grab another piece of pork. “Oh, come on. You don’t _really_ hate Kageyama. You’re like… _frenemies_.”

When he looked up, pork already in his mouth, three pair of eyes were looking at him incredulously.

“Did you just say ‘frenemies,’ Ryuu?”

“What?” Tanaka sputtered. “It’s a word!” 

“For middle school girls maybe,” Akiteru chuckled, as though Tanaka didn’t have an enormous amount of dirt on him that he could spring at any time.

Oikawa’s nose was scrunched up like he was smelling something terrible, “I think that Tobio-chan and I passed the frenemies stage quite a long time ago. He’s closer to a nemesis at this point. From time to time, we deem it necessary to work together. This time it’s against our arch enemy for the sake of the greater good.”

“More like the greater haul,” Saeko snorted. 

“Anyway,” Akiteru continued, “Kei’s pretty unhappy where he is. He hates lecturing, he says he doesn’t have enough control over his own research, and most importantly, he’s bored. On top of all that, he has a really expensive hobby. Like, the score you’re talking about could only put a small dent in it expensive. I think he might say yes.”

“How do I know he won’t turn us all in?” Oikawa asked suspiciously. “I don’t just pick up people off the street, you know.”

“Well, you can’t know that. But that’s true of anyone,” Akiteru shrugged. “Kei hates liars, though, and doesn’t want to be one. And as much as I piss him off, he wouldn’t do anything that would put me at risk.”

“What else does he offer?” Oikawa’s eyes were slits.

“He’s a computer science professor at Todai. Wrote his dissertation on adaptive security programming. Has some patents in that area too,” Akiteru was acting relaxed, but he couldn’t really hide how smug he felt. “The industry’s used his research a lot, and he hasn’t seen a lot of money from the companies that profited from it.”

Akiteru cracked open a beer like it was something he’d been waiting his whole life to do. “In fact,” he lifted his eyebrow, “you could probably find his work in some recent developments downtown…”

Oikawa leaned forward, a savage look in his eyes that frankly freaked Tanaka out because he looked _deranged_. “You’re telling me I could _hire_ the person who designed the security system I want to get past?”

“Well, not designed per-say,” Akiteru tipped his head. “But he did write the theoretical framework for all systems of its type.”

“Oh. Really?” Oikawa held a piece of meat in his chopsticks and seemed to be unable to get past staring at it.

Tanaka didn’t have a fucking clue what they were talking about, and apparently Saeko didn’t either. But for once Oikawa seemed to be showing some kind of vulnerability, and he was impressed that the brother-in-law he thought was kinda spineless was making that happen.

“That’s not so important though, because honestly when it comes to advanced security hacking…” Akiteru took a long sip of his beer, “Kei’s was better than me by his first year of high school.”

 

 

_The Wounded Crow, 1pm_

 

“So yeah, I was just working at the bar and thought it looked kind of fun, and it is! I’m not so good at the dancing part, but that’s okay cause I like spinning around. It’s all like whoooooooosh and then you’re holding yourself up with just your arms. And did you know you can get callouses on the inside of your thighs? Because I sure didn’t!”

It was well past lunch, and the two of them were sitting in a booth eating messy sandwiches that Takeda had ordered before he went in the back to work on the club’s accounts. Well, Hitoka was sitting. Shouyou was kneeling and bouncing up and down. He was taking the opportunity to tell her about his new hobby (one of many, really) and Hitoka was struggling to keep up.

It was especially difficult because while this was all going on Tobio was glaring at them from the bar, his own lunch untouched. He looked even more furious than usual, but Hitoka was having a really hard time blaming him. The fact was that even she, a happily married woman who typically _preferred_ women over men, was having a bit of a hard time.

Shouyou was wearing a bright green spandex crop top and purple booty shorts. And even though Hitoka normally didn’t find men in skin tight clothing very attractive, she had to admit that her best friend was pulling it off in a _big way_. Because he was right, his arms had gotten very strong. And apparently so had everything else, though he was still as petite as ever. And since there was no work whatsoever for Tobio to immerse himself in, he seemed to be escaping in the only way he knew how.

By getting mad.

Aone remained there as well, wiping down dusty bottles as he put them away. Just like Tobio, he was also glaring, but the dark haired man was too much of an idiot to realize that one of the club's best bouncers was attempting to drill a hole through his head with his eyes.

“So,” Shouyou flipped his long braid over his shoulder (just when had his hair gotten so long?) “What are you guys doing here? At my work.” He glanced over at the bar and Hitoka followed his gaze. "Are you trying to put all my exes in one place? Because I think they might kill each other. I'm honestly not sure who would win. Aone looks tough but he's a real big softy, and Kageyama is... Kageyama." His voice dropped and he leaned in, "Did he get... bigger," Shouyou gestured to his shoulders and flexed a little, "by the way? Because it looks like..."

Tobio, who maybe sensed that he was being talked about, or possibly had just lost patience completely, turned back to the bar and pulled a small notebook out of his pocket. He started writing in it the way he did everything.

Furiously.

"You should ask him yourself," Hitoka said sternly, cheering herself on for taking such a solid stance. "And we're here for a lot of things actually. I really missed you, you know? Could you stand to reply to my messages ever, instead of just sending confusing nonsense at four am and then never following up?"

Shouyou scratched the back of his head, which seemed a little harder now that his hair was so long, "Sorry Yacchan, I just get... distracted and then I forget."

This was it. Her chance. They were all here, and if Shouyou was feeling guilty for ignoring her then maybe, just maybe, she could get him to agree to talk with Tobio. There were hardly any distractions right now, and she had his undivided attention.

Or so she thought.

Just as her mouth opened, a soothing but assertive command on her tongue, a shadow appeared over her shoulder.

"We're having a private conversation, Yamayama-kun," Shouyou half-growled, half-whined to someone just behind her. Somehow. Oh god these two were going to kill her and then Kiyoko was going to slaughter them.

Tobio was looming with a notebook in one hand and a sandwich in the other. He threw down a piece of paper torn from the book. It had a few dark scribbles of information on it, but not nearly enough to say anything convincing.

“I’ve got a job for you, _dumbass,"_ he glared at Shouyou, who was staring back just as angrily. "Now convince Yaichi to do it too so we can leave. I'm going to go eat this outside. You'd better be done when I'm finished.” 

He stormed away, catching the bottle of milk that Aone tossed to him at the door.

Hitoka put her head in her hands. This was not the way to go about things. They needed to work things out, not boss each other around. They probably shouldn’t even talk about the job yet – that was the last thing they needed to fight over. Or if they _were_ going to talk about it, Tobio could at least tell Shouyou what he’d be signing up for in person.

But when she looked up at her best friend’s face as he held the piece of paper in his trembling hands, she realized that maybe she was wrong. Because if Tobio had looked like he saw himself die a few minutes ago, Shouyou looked like the scowling man had brought him back to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lowkey ship Aone and Hinata so sue me. 
> 
> next chapter's my fave.


	6. The coolest guy I know

_The School of Information Science and Technology, The University of Tokyo, almost 9am_

 

“And that would be why...” droned the tall man in front of the classroom, “the implementation of two factor authentication has become a common element of modern online security…” Amber eyes scanned the amphitheater classroom with practiced disdain, but none of the seventy or so students seemed to notice. They were too busy packing up their things, despite the clock indicating three minutes until the hour. A few made a half-hearted attempt to listen to what he was saying, but most of them were engrossed in their bags or their phones.

“Just go,” the instructor gave up. He shooed them off, French cuff flicking around his thin wrist. He was so slender he would have looked awkward and scrawny if he hadn’t been so well dressed. As it was, he resembled a jaded high fashion model. “But don’t complain when the readings make no sense. As though you’ve ever actually read them anyway...”

A wave of chatter swelled as the entire classroom tried to leave en masse, eagerly making evening plans, gossiping about who was hooking up with who, worrying over job interviews, and everything else that seemed important during the spring break of life. Tsukishima Kei: blonder, taller, and infinitely more perilous than his older brother, watched them go, blinking slowly with silent contempt.

When the door swung shut after the last student he turned his head to address the single inhabitant of the classroom who remained, making that inhabitant kind of nervous.

"I'd prefer we meet in my office to hear your proposal,” he declared, a statement which could easily be directed to a student, suitor, or future business partner. “Office hours are three to five. You do know that, right? Oh…” his laconic face twitched with the slightest sneer. “Of course you wouldn’t. Because you don't have a syllabus, now do you?" The sneer faded, replaced again with boredom. "Room 304 of this building. And please," he slipped expensive white headphones over his ears, "don't waste my time." 

Oikawa, who was sitting in the back of the room dressed in the nicest street clothes he owned in an effort to look more or less like he belonged on a university campus, realized that he had underestimated just how much of an asshole this guy was.

 

"Hello, Oikawa-san."

Tsukishima was seated at his desk when he arrived. It was a design marvel of twisted metal and impossibly thin glass. The entire office was essentially a solid glass wall overlooking the atrium in the center of the school of computer science. A long thin finger pressed a button on the wall and the glass overlooking the students several floors below frosted, giving them privacy.

The rest of the room was a study in minimalism: mostly bookshelves with a large number of books, external hard drives, and a few abstract sculptures to break up the monotony. There was only one incongruous element, a bright plastic purple dinosaur that sat on Tsukishima's desk. A small piece of paper had been taped to it to form a speech bubble with two words written in an adult’s handwriting.

_Congrats Tsukki!_

“Good afternoon, Tsukishima-sensei,” Oikawa smiled politely lowering himself into the space-age, impossible-to-sit-in chair across from the professor’s desk. “I’m assuming your brother told you about me, but I’m impressed you recognized me so quickly.”

“I didn’t need him to tell me who you were,” the man sighed as though he was peeved by their conversation already. “I recognized you from your trial.”

Oikawa laughed, more out of shock than actual amusement, “Is that a habit of yours? True crime devotee?”

“No,” Tsukishima tipped his head, a gesture that reminded Oikawa of a carrion bird sizing up a carcass. “I occasionally get pleasure out of watching people make fools of themselves. You happened to be one of those people.”

It was pretty rare that Oikawa encountered someone he didn’t know how to manipulate, or at least tease. It was even rarer that a person tried to turn the tables on him. But now that it was happening, coming from a delicate nerd whose hands suggested he'd never done a day's worth of hard work in his life, Oikawa felt more than capable of rising to the challenge.

“Is that so… Tsukki?" he asked softly, pitch dropping on the last word.

The amber eyes behind the man's glasses looked shocked for a single second, which was more than enough for Oikawa to know that he was going to win.

"Don't call me that," he said flatly.

Oikawa put his finger to his lips and chuckled coyly, "Yes, I imagine there's only one person who’s allowed to do that, Tsukishima-sensei."

He was rewarded with silence.

Jackpot.

“Let’s just get down to business, shall we?” he leaned forward, putting the backs of his hands on the desk and leaving smears but not fingerprints. "You don’t seem to be the sort of person who needs coddling, so I won’t."

Tsukishima had begun to twitch.

"I need someone who can decimate the security system of Shiratorizawa Hotel and Casino, while simultaneously maintaining a constant audio link for all members of a fifteen-person team, one of whom will be in a helicopter. I also need this person to break a safe with a dual digital and combination lock in collaboration with a professional safecracker."

The flicker of interest was infinitesimally small. But it was there.

"Remuneration will be one billion yen, give or take, depending on the size of my team. Everyone involved thus far owes me five years of their lives at least, so are unlikely to turn out of sheer gratitude. I have no clue about you, but your brother insists you 'hate liars’ and can be trusted. By the way, he owes me the past five years as well."

One of Tsukishima's hands fell onto his desk.

"So there’s my proposition Tsukishima-sensei," Oikawa stood up and made for the door. "Take it or leave it. But please,” he turned with a wicked grin, “don’t waste my time.”

His hand was on the knob. It was turning. A quarter turn. A half turn. Then...

"I have some requirements before I agree," the professor's voice changed. He sounded respectful and earnest. Hate liars he very well might, but he seemed to ignore the fact that tone of voice could be profoundly dishonest

"I'm listening," Oikawa turned around, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe with a toss of his hair.

"First, everything we say in this office is never, ever to be repeated."

"That's easy enough,” he waved his hand dismissively. “Sure."

"Second, do not give me a nickname. And for god's sake drop the ‘sensei.’ It's giving me the creeps."

Oikawa felt his lips forming a pout and stopped them just in time. "Fine, whatever you want."

“Third.” Tsukishima’s voice grew in strength and authority, “you get rid of the helicopter. They're too easy to trace. There's low altitude radar everywhere in that part of the city. Even if you plan on getting rid of the thing once you’re done, it's not like a van. There just aren't as many and the paper trails are almost impossible to hide. Even if you compact it down to almost nothing eventually it’ll get discovered. It's a stupid plan."

"My associate's not going to like that," Oikawa chuckled. Tsukishima was absolutely an asshole, but he was starting to want him to join up for the sheer joy of watching him interact with Tobio.

"Your associate's an idiot," Tsukishima fired back.

Dear god, the fights would make five years of prison worthwhile.

"Well that's all well and good, Tsukishima,” he said, calmly despite the growing giddiness in his mind, “but just how are we supposed to get two metric tons of legal tender off the roof of a thirty story building?"

There was a very quick glance to the purple dinosaur. The professor might be a statuesque giant who students fawned over, but he was also _such_ a virgin.

"I know someone who can make that happen. That's my last demand. Put him on the team."

Oikawa scoffed. He really didn’t know how this worked. "I'll need a few more specifics beyond 'make that happen,' before I’ll consider it, I'm afraid."

"Do you know what an 'unmanned aerial vehicle' is, Oikawa-san? It's technology that's developed a lot since you've been away. They're like small helicopters controlled from a distance, and it's possible to make them very difficult to detect."

It sounded like a _drone_ , but other than the American military using them to slaughter innocent civilians, he didn’t really know much about them. He thought they were planes, not helicopters.

"Can one of these things carry that much weight?"

"Do you think I'd suggest one if it couldn't?" Tsukishima shot back.

"You do realize that what you're asking me is an enormously tall order?” Oikawa snapped. “I'm going to have to rethink my entire team, not to mention piss off an already very irritable person."

"You do realize,” Tsukishima leaned back in his chair, putting his enormous feet on his desk, “I may be the only person on earth who can break into this security system.” He grinned.

“You literally cannot do this without me."

"Fine,” Oikawa fumed, feeling like he had only sort of won, which was not acceptable. “How about this: we go see your guy. If I like him, we're on. If not, I'll just send everyone home. This conversation never happened, and you can go back to putting your students to sleep."

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, then got to his feet. "That sounds like a wise choice. Let's go."

"What kind of mechanical genius is available at the drop of a hat like this?” Oikawa demanded. “You haven't even texted him!"

“Just the coolest guy I know,” Tsukishima smirked.

 

 

_Shimada Electronics, Bunkyo store, 5pm_

 

“Okay guys, you wanna see how fast it can go?” Tadashi grinned at the small collection of kids who had gathered around him.

“Yeah!” they cheered, some of them jumping up and down. One little girl was so excited she was trembling. He really wanted to give her the thing for free.

With steady hands on the remote, he guided the tiny white drone down the aisle until it disappeared around the corner. Switching his eyes to the screen, he zipped it through the store, past the registers and the return counter, until it came zooming back in the opposite direction. His audience spun around and squealed in excitement, asking him how he made it go so fast and begging to try. He stuttered, not sure how to answer because they really _couldn’t_ , when a familiar voice behind him asked:

“Don’t you have a job to do, Yamaguchi?”

He turned, drone still hovering over his shoulders, and rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, yeah, Tsukki, but they wanted to see how this model worked. So… it’s kind of my job. If they want, they can come back and buy it. Well, if their parents want. I doubt they have eleven thousand yen.”

He landed the drone carefully on top of one of the shelving units and admitted, “Actually they wouldn’t even be buying the same thing, since I made a lot of modifications on this one. I guess that’s false advertising, hm?”

The children, taking his boring adult-speak as a sign that the show was over, scattered in all directions.

Tsukki was looking like he always did: emotionless and very hard to read, but under all that he seemed kind of distracted. Tadashi decided that his ethical crisis would have to wait. He was on the verge of telling his friend he was glad he stopped by, and it was almost time for his dinner break so maybe if they wanted to grab something? when a man with weird hair and a handsome face popped up from nowhere.

Tadashi looked down nervously and realized that there was mustard all over his blue polo shirt.

“Yo~hoo~ Freckles-chan,” the handsome man waved his hand very close to his face to get his attention. “I’m going to take you out for lunch.”

Tadashi was startled, and he stepped back instinctively.

Unfortunately, he walked right into an entire display of phone cases.

 

“Sorry Tsukki. I wish we could go somewhere better, but I don’t have enough time now,” he said forty minutes later when the display was picked up and the three of them were finally seated at the McDonald’s across the street. “And uh…” he turned to the handsome guy, “I’m sorry but I didn’t get your name. I’m Yamaguchi Tadashi.”

“Oikawa Tooru. I’m a friend of Tsukishima’s from work.”

Tadashi blinked. Tsukki didn’t really… well it was none of his business who Tsukki was friends with, even if they were kind of dashing and creepy all at once, but his friend had always given the impression that he kind of hated everyone in his department with the bitterness he normally reserved for couples walking too slowly in the middle of the sidewalk. 

“How do you know Tsukishima?” the strange man asked, smiling in a way that made Tadashi feel almost entirely certain that he and Tsukki were not friends at _all_. But his Tsukki was just eating his French fries, wordlessly sitting the floppy ones on Tadashi’s tray. If he was so relaxed then it, whatever this was, had to be okay.

“Uh, well, we were both in grad school at the same time,” he began, eyes on his fries. “I had to take a comp sci class to get this project I was working on together, and some of the students in the program kept looking down on me because I was only in an _applied_ science, and Tsukki, he… well, he made us all look pretty stupid and then…”

“Yamaguchi shut up.”

Tadashi sighed with relief, because he never knew how to stop himself when he was rambling, but Tsukki could always sense it and helped out, in his way.

“Sorry, Tsukki,” he grinned before eating one of his fries.

The handsome man… or rather, Oikawa, had just devoured a cheeseburger with an egg on top faster than Tadashi had ever seen anyone do so in his life, and already he was asking, “So what was your applied science, Yamaguchi-kun?”

“Aeronautical engineering,” Tadashi said, forgetting that his mouth was full and immediately choking.

Oikawa stood up immediately, slapping his back and looking at Tsukki with a smile that bordered on incredulous. Tadashi knew he was being an embarrassment. He might as well just put it all out there so this weird social experiment could be over. Oikawa sat down again when he was breathing properly, and Tadashi took a long sip of his soda to clear his throat.

“I didn’t finish my PhD, though,” he started slowly, “because I found out there wasn’t any work in my specialty that wasn’t going to be used to kill lots of people. Well, more to the point they kicked me out was because I, uh… destroyed my grant-sponsored dissertation research. Mostly so the Americans couldn’t get it.”

Oikawa looked startled, then he leaned over and put his hand on Tadashi’s. His long fingers were cold and felt rough, like he’d been doing years of hard labor.

Tsukki coughed sternly and Tadashi pulled his hands away, grateful for the excuse to be rude.

“Yamaguchi, just tell him about your dissertation so we can get this over with.”

Tadashi felt his cheeks heat up just the slightest bit, “Uh, well it was about the implementation of radar scattering polymers on large-scale hovering UAVs.”

“Huge, invisible helicopter drones,” Tsukki translated.

Oikawa seemed to be holding his breath. This guy was so creepy and Tadashi would really like to know what was going on. “Did it… work?” he asked.

Tadashi felt a surge of pride that overwhelmed his fear. “Do you think I would have gotten kicked out of school over something that didn’t work?” he snapped.

 

 

_One of the largest homes in Shibuya, 1am_

 

For having such an extensive collection, the security in the place was pathetic. Just a few weight sensors on the floor with their most valuable piece, a tiny little vase that a normal person could take or leave in terms of aesthetics, sitting directly underneath a skylight.

It was the mere fact that sensible thieves _didn’t_ break into places this way that made him want to do it; dissolving the skylight's fiberglass panel (hey, at least they _tried_ to make it harder to get in) and lowering himself down, headfirst, with a silent, remote-operated winch. The cost of the winch alone was pretty much what he was making for the job, but it was the principle of the thing. It was like a Hollywood movie. Elegant rather than efficient.

He was all the way down, eye level with the squat, puce piece of pottery that some French asshole was eager to pay twenty grand in euros for, when his headset beeping in his ear indicated an incoming call.

"Yo, it's Kuroo," he answered. There were no security microphones anywhere in this shack, and the idea of catching up with his mother while engaged in extreme cat burglary delighted him.

" _Yo~hoo Tetsu-chan_."

If his phone had been in his hand rather than his ear, the whole job would have been blown. Blown because he would have dropped it at the sound of a voice he expected only a little more than his dead grandma’s. Kuroo knew that Oikawa was getting out one of these days, but he hadn’t expected a call. Not right away, and maybe not ever. It wasn’t like they’d been friends, really.

"Oikawa. How was prison?" he asked conversationally, scratching his head as he slowly spun on the wire in a counterclockwise direction.

" _Oh, even more miserable than advertised,_ ” the man sighed dramatically. “ _I think I've developed a severe mental illness. Speaking of which, want a job?_ "

"No,” Kuroo stuck what looked like a mousetrap made of paper instead of wood on the side of the fiberglass display case, keeping his hand on the metal so that he caught the chunk of melting plastic that fell away. He put it in a pvc container, and stuck that in his backpack. “Absolutely not. Your jobs were insane."

" _But they were fun_."

He couldn’t argue with that. Lots of money. Lots of people to provoke. Lots of excitement.

"Oh god _yes,_ they were,” he agreed, “but they were also fucking crazy. I'm a steady guy, Oikawa. I'm careful, cautious. I don't need you and your flashy gigs. Also, just for the sake of argument, you do remember you were in prison, right?"

" _Yes, but Tetsu-chan tell me: how's petty theft working out?_ "

"You wound me!” he reached inside the display with his gloved hand and wrapped his hand around the object of interest. “I've been doing some solid work.”

" _Let me guess, stealing busts and vases from dusty private collections, hm?_ "

Kuroo tightened his fingers around the vase and scowled.

" _Like the private collection you're robbing right now?_ "

That got his attention. "Okay, how exactly do you know that?"

" _I have my ways,_ ” Oikawa chirped. Kuroo had almost felt bad for him over the whole jail thing, but that was all over if this was how he was going to play things. “ _Seemed like a good job, hm? Low security, easy place to test out some ridiculous new techniques. Almost too easy, really... tell me Kuroo, have you ever listened to a police scanner? Because I never realized how enjoyable it was! Especially since I found out that you're about to be the star of a very dramatic bust._ "

" **Fuck** ," Kuroo wrapped one arm around the vase, pulling it close to his chest. He used the other to trip the winch. With a terrible screeching sound that was _not_ supposed to happen, it yanked him upwards, pulling him closer and closer to the skylight until he realized something very unfortunate.

He was going to slam ass first into a six-inch-thick piece of plexiglass and break his goddamn tailbone.

Stopping the winch rattled his brains just as much as starting it had. He spun himself around on the wire and started the the thing again.

It made a terrible grinding noise, and then no noise at all. Black smoke rolled down into his face.

"Okay Trash King," he spat, "I get it. You're really good. And you clearly have some ace in the hole here. So I'm gonna just say yeah, I'll do your job. Now get me the fuck out of here."

" _I knew you'd agree, Kuroo! It's going to be great, and you'll never have to do another job again_."

"But I like doing jobs!” he cried. “That's _why_ I'm a thief! Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

" _Calm down. Tobio's on the roof. He'll get you out of there_."

"Kageyama? Isn't he scared of heights? How'd he get up here?"

" _I'd imagine the same way you did, although I generally tend to leave the details to him. And it's not so much that he's scared of heights, more that he's scared of jumping off of buildings. Which he's probably going to have to do, right? I'd say you have three minutes to get out of there. Thank goodness for Tokyo traffic.”_

Kuroo felt a heave on the harness as he was very slowly hauled upwards, one tremendous yank at a time.

"I can't believe he's strong enough to do this," Kuroo muttered, his voice being steadily strangled by his own harness. "Last time I checked I was heavier than he was."

" _Didn't you hear? Tobio-chan had his heart broken. I think he's spent the last five years at the gym working off his sexual frustration_."

"Really? I thought if anyone was gonna last it'd be those two. Who told you?"

" _Oh, Suga's always ready to gossip, you know how he is_. _Also you can just **tell**_."

With a final yank Kuroo felt his ass slide over the lip of the skylight and he wiggled forward, feeling solid fiberglass under his back. He drew in gasps of air as the moon shone down on his face, but it was pretty quickly blotted out.

"You do know," Kageyama said, scowling even more than usual, "that I could hear everything you two were talking about?"

Kuroo leapt to his feet and patted his back consolingly before dropping to a crouch and packing all of his gear with tremendous speed, "Sorry to hear the news, buddy."

"The news is years old," Kageyama seemed to be chewing through a lemon. Oikawa was right. You could just tell.

"In that case," Kuroo stood, backpack full of wires and the traitorous winch, "wanna bang, my brooding, happily-single savior?"

On the phone Oikawa screamed with laughter, while Kageyama looked to be digesting a fully intact sea urchin. 

"I'll take that as a ‘no’ then," Kuroo grabbed the unhappy man by the back of his shirt and pulled him to the edge of the building. "Unfortunately," he crouched down and came back up with two carabiners, one of which he attached to his harness, and the other to Kageyama's belt, "with your consent, we're about to get into a very intimate position. Wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist."

"What?"

"You're on the line that's set up for a backpack, not a person. We're going to jump off the building. You need to hold on. No feels will be copped, I promise."

Kageyama blanched, then stoically flung his long arms and legs around Kuroo only an instant before Kuroo stepped off the edge.

"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," Kageyama hissed into his ear, too professional to scream even when he was terrified.

"Sure do wish you were saying that under different circumstances," Kuroo laughed just before they hit the ground.

 

 

“So,” Kuroo slid into the passenger seat of the nondescript white van and turned to face the back seat, “what the hell is it that you want me to do?”

Since there were no seats in the cargo van, Oikawa was lounging in a reclining beach chair that was attached to the floor with bungee cords. He was playing something on an iPad, like a kid in a grocery store parking lot waiting for his mom to finish her errands.

“Oh, Tetsu, look at all these cute little cats I caught,” he cooed. “The fat one is _so funny_.”

“You don’t catch them, you _attract_ them,” Kuroo threw his gear into the back, barely missing Oikawa’s head, unfortunately. “And the fat one’s a piece of shit.”

The driver’s side door opened and Kageyama climbed in, staring at the steering wheel like he wanted to fall asleep on it. 

“Tobio, tell Tetsu-chan what the job entails.”

“Isn’t that your job?” Kageyama demanded, sounding drained. He was trying to hide it, but he was still out of breath.

“He just pulled ninety kilograms about ten vertical meters, and then jumped off a building,” Kuroo said. “Maybe you should cut him a break.”

“My job is picking the perfect people and convincing them to join us,” Oikawa said to the iPad. “Tetsu-chan, you’ve agreed to join us. Now he just has to tell you what we’re doing. It’s his plan, after all.”

Tight hands gripped the steering wheel and Kageyama sighed. This seemed way beyond the somber grumpiness that Kuroo remembered. The guy seemed well past physical exhaustion.

“You need to get two inexperienced climbers down and out of an elevator shaft in sixty seconds,” he said without moving his head. “Then get through a six-inch steel door in under two minutes. No explosives.”

Kuroo blinked.

“I appreciate your faith in me, but that’s not fucking possible without blowing something up.”

“Seismic monitors,” Kageyama went on. “They’ll pick up the movement and then emergency services will show up. You’ve got to melt it.”

“Look,” Kuroo scratched the back of his head and looked at the ceiling as he thought. “I could try nitric acid, but that shit will explode if it gets close to anything organic. Unless we’re robbing a sterilized Erlenmeyer flask, there’s gonna be carbon all over the place.”

“So there’s nothing that will work?” he couldn’t be sure, but it looked like Kageyama’s eye was twitching.

“The only thing that could do what you’re talking about is this _crazy_ solvent they’re making at my old lab. But it’s a government controlled substance, so it’s not like we can just buy some.” 

“You’re a thief, steal it!” Oikawa called out, eyes still on his game. “Oh look! This one has a cowboy hat!”

“Can you do that?” Kageyama asked bluntly. “If not then we need to call this off.”

Kuroo turned and took a good look at Oikawa. Even in the glow of the screen, he only looked like a shadow of himself. Kuroo knew that out of any of Oikawa’s past associates, he had the longest rap sheet himself. He could have gone away for a long, long time in exchange for Oikawa’s freedom.

But he hadn’t.

“Yeah,” Kuroo sighed. “I can.”

“Great!” Oikawa bounced out of his chair, “Now, I just have one more favor to ask you…”

 

 

_Fukurodani Garage, just outside the Port of Tokyo, 3am_

 

“I appreciate your commitment to get me a driver, Tetsu, but don’t you think it’s a little late for a recruitment trip?” Oikawa squinted in the passenger seat as they drove past large shipping containers, enormous cranes looming in the background like alien spaceships. It was pretty neat, actually.

In the back of the van, Tobio was sprawled in the beach chair, mouth wide open as he slept.

“Nah, they’re always up this late,” Tetsu shifted into a lower gear as a small warehouse with large garage doors came into view. He pulled to the side of the building, and put the van into park.

“We gonna just leave him here?” he gestured to Oikawa’s snoring almost-partner. “Why didn’t we just drop him off at home?”

“Tobio’s bed is full of shrimp at the moment, and I think he wants to avoid it.”

“You’re seriously making them work together?” Tetsu raised his eyebrow as he stepped out of the car.

Oikawa sighed with annoyance. “I don’t _make_ anyone do anything,” he whined.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Alright,” he moved on, deciding to ignore Tetsu’s pointless complaining, “is there anything I should know about this person before we talk? I’m assuming you want to get caught even less than I do, so his trustworthiness is assured.”

Tetsu looked even more annoyed, then just gave up altogether, “He’s been in the business longer than I have. Well, he doesn’t break into places like I do, but he’s not exactly on the side of the law. He’s a cool guy. Plus,” he raised his hand to knock on the metal door, “he’s my best friend.”

“I think I’ve change my mind,” Oikawa grimaced.

“Password?” asked a deep voice behind the door.

“Too late!” Tetsu whispered with a huge wink then turned his attention to the door. “Hey Washio. Hm… last time I was here it was ‘57 Chevy,’ but I can always text and ask.”

There was the squealing sound of metal on metal and the door swung open revealing a man who looked like he could rip out Oikawa’s throat with his teeth. Tobio really needed to up his scowl game, if this was the kind of face he was competing against.

“Kuroo,” the man nodded, with a wordless glance at Oikawa.

“He’s legit, man, don’t worry,” Tetsu waved him off and stepped inside.

 

 

Oikawa didn’t care about cars. Not even a little. Most of the time they were just a hassle and trains, especially in Tokyo, were almost always faster. He didn’t even have a driver’s license, in point of fact. But it was still hard not to be impressed by the amount of chrome in Fukurodani Garage.

Right by the door two determined women with grease on their arms were pulling all the salvageable parts out of some kind of sports car. It was bright green chrome, and seemed insanely expensive, but appeared to have slid into a pole or something going around a turn. He had no idea how you even did something like that. The women grinned and gave a friendly nod as he and Tetsu passed, their hands too full to wave.

Next was some kind of classic American sports car, white, with one gold and one black racing stripe and the letter “s” twice on the grill. Two men were polishing it meticulously: one very small with a truly terrible haircut, the other blonde, who seemed on the verge of laughing at everyone.

Tetsu led him past five or six more cars, from expensive luxury sedans to completely ridiculous sports cars to motorcycles to a very practical pale blue Toyota. At the very end of all of these was an honest-to-god Formula race car with a sponsor and everything. It was jacked off the ground and someone was underneath it, lying on what looked like a stretcher on wheels. The thing probably had a name, but Oikawa didn’t know it.

Tetsu nudged the contraption a little and asked “Yo, where is he?”

The person wheeled themselves out, with a “Good evening, Kuroo-san,” and Oikawa had to bite his lip to keep from audibly gasping.

Since puberty – which had not really hit him so much as fluttered down on the wings of an angel, gifting him with muscles, sharp jaw angles, and a deep melodic voice – Oikawa had grown accustomed to being most attractive person in any room. Even though he would readily admit that prison hadn’t treated him very kindly in that regard, he was pretty certain it would only take a few months and a bucket of moisturizer until he was back to his former glory. Even now he was fairly staunch in the hypothesis that if you acted attractive, people treated you like you were. And he certainly knew how to act.

But this man was beyond attractive. He was probably the most gorgeous person of any gender that Oikawa had ever seen. Dark curly hair, eyebrows with a perfect arch, large, heavy-lidded almond eyes with eyelashes thicker and longer than any person had business having. His eyes themselves were dark, fathomless, intelligent and _green_. Green! The rarest eye color!

The man stood up in an unassuming way, wiping delicate, dirty hands on his coveralls, graceful motions revealing a compact, toned physique that baggy clothes couldn’t hide. A splotch of grease was on his cheek, and his entire hairline was just filthy, but he was _still beautiful._

Oikawa wanted to kill this man.

“Oikawa, this is Akaashi Keiji, the head mechanic here and a good friend of mine. Akaashi, this is Oikawa Tooru, human trash.”

Of all the ungrateful… “ _Mean_ , Tetsu!”

“Very nice to meet you, Oikawa-san,” Akaashi said softly before turning to Tetsu. “He’s theoretically sleeping. But there's been an adjustment I’m certain he isn’t in reality. Either way, he’d be distressed to miss you. Shall we go up?”

Even his voice was amazing, the piece of shit.

 

The Unassuming Grease Beauty led them up a series of stairs to a small apartment that hung over the garage on one side, with the other facing what Oikawa thought was probably Tokyo Bay. Outside of the entrance was the kind of foyer you normally saw indoors, with the addition of a utility sink. After begging their forgiveness, Akaashi sat down and unlaced his heavy boots, placing them in a plastic container next to another larger pair. Oikawa was about to do the same with his shoes, but Tetsu shook his head. Their host unzipped and hung up his coveralls, revealing a tight black tee shirt and jeans. Finally, he stepped over to the sink and vigorously washed his hands, arms, and face.

And now he was even prettier.

Oikawa ran his fingers through his own limp hair and pouted.

“Please, come in, and welcome,” Akaashi opened the door. He stepped inside to another landing, a normal one, where Oikawa and Tetsu quickly removed their shoes. Further into the apartment were two sounds.

Mario Kart, and squawking.

Tetsu bounded inside like he owned the place, yelling, “Bro!” at the top of his lungs. Oikawa had to follow, because he didn’t want to spend one second longer with this quietly intense man than he had to. It felt like his personality was being dismantled and analyzed, and as much as he enjoyed doing that to other people, he didn’t want it done to him.

As he moved down the hall peeking into bedrooms, an office, and the kitchen, he saw one unifying decorative element (well, if you didn’t count owls).

Racing trophies. Dozens of them.

He found Tetsu rolling around on the living room floor with a very interesting looking person.

“Why are you awake, Bo?” Tetsu asked when he caught the strange man in a headlock. Two grey and black… horns, for lack of a better descriptor, made out of hair were peeking out from under his arm. “You know how it fucks you up, being awake in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, but,” the other man got himself free and proceeded to use his enormous thighs to lock Kuroo in some kind of complicated pretzel hold, “when I woke up to pee Keiji wasn’t there and I got lonely. I can’t sleep without him!” He was extremely muscular, and probably even taller than Oikawa, with grey eyebrows the size of caterpillars and bright golden eyes. His voice was loud and needy and boisterous and whiny and triumphant all at once.

It was the most exhausting thing Oikawa had ever heard.

“We have a king size bed, Koutarou,” slim, greasy, and handsome sighed as Kuroo flipped the crazy-haired man onto his back. “We can sleep all night without even touching each other when you restrain yourself instead of flailing. You are certainly able to sleep without me; it’s impossible to tell if I’m even there.”

“Nope, Keiji, I can feel your heartbeat through the mattress. When it’s not there I pine.”

Oikawa clapped his hands, “Well, isn’t this disgustingly romantic. Hello race-car-driver-chan, I’m Oikawa Tooru, and I’m looking for a driver in order to commit a rather extravagant crime.”    

From his position leaning backward over Tetsu’s knee, the loud man looked at him, grinning, which looked horrifying upside-down, “Well, I’m Bokuto Koutarou and that sounds _fucking awesome_!”

 

 

“Gather round guys, I have an announcement to make!”

Bokuto stood in the center of the garage still dressed in what he’d presumably been sleeping in: a shirt emblazoned with what Oikawa could only assume was some American or British rock band, yellow striped pajama pants, and fuzzy owl slippers. Akaashi stood next to him, blinking slowly but otherwise expressionless.

The mechanics that Oikawa had met earlier emerged from all corners of the shop, wiping their arms and faces with rags that were already smeared with grime. They exchanged bemused looks, like this wasn’t the first time they’d had a meeting like this.

Bokuto put his hands behind his back and started pacing like a general addressing his troops, “Keiji and I have been offered a unique opportunity, and will be leaving the garage for a few weeks.”

“I don’t believe I said I needed _two_ drivers,” Oikawa interrupted haughtily. He didn’t want to have to look at butterfly-eyelashes for the duration of the job, and he certainly hadn’t offered to give him part of the cut.

The powerful grey-haired man’s head rotated much further than a human head should be able to move, and he fixed on Oikawa with a truly terrifying glare. “Keiji and I _always_ work together,” he growled. “Either he comes, or you can find someone else.”

“Calm down, Bokuto-san,” the man of the hour insisted mildly.

The change was immediate. Bokuto whirled around, demanding why he was being addressed so formally all of a sudden, and was Keiji mad at him, and what had he done they were a _team_ and sticking together was what teams did, didn’t they? Didn’t they???

He was the most high-maintenance person that Oikawa had ever seen, _including_ himself.

“If you want us both to work a job for someone we don’t know, we have to demonstrate that we can be professional, Bokuto-san.”

Oikawa had to give it to him, pretty face was playing his boss like a stringed instrument, no head-butting necessary. 

“You’re right Akaashi, you’re right. So anyway, Oikawa… _sama_?” Bokuto bent over in an awkward attempt at a bow and there was the sound of a hand slapping against someone’s forehead. Oikawa glanced at Tetsu and smirked.

“I’m a good driver, there’s lots of proof that you already saw. But not just fast… stunts too! I can crash a car, flip a car, drive under a tractor trailer while it’s moving, lay down a motorcycle and get up and walk away…”

“More like run away,” the grinning man with blond hair interjected. “You caught on fire the one time you did it.”

The other mechanics chuckled into their hands and Bokuto deflated.

“He is one of the top five drivers in East Asia right now,” one of the girls added, noticing how much her boss was drooping.

It did the trick. He immediately perked up and seemed to remember what his actual point was, “But I couldn’t do any of that stuff without Akaashi. He’s not just second in command here; he used to be on my pit crew, and now he's my chief mechanic.That means he takes apart an entire Formula racer, which is like… an airplane without wings, and puts it back together three times in a weekend.  It doesn’t matter what it is, if he sees you take something apart, he can put it back together. And fast! Fastest hands I’ve ever seen. He can replace a carburetor in less than a minute!”

The tiniest spark of an idea flickered to life in Oikawa’s mind. He still hadn’t told Tobio what he’d done to get Tsukishima on board. He didn’t particularly want to. Because now they had zero helicopters and an extraneous engineer who claimed to be able to design something even better.

And here, right in front of him, was a genius mechanic who could build it.

“Okay,” he clapped his hands together, “you’ve convinced me Kou-chan. I’ll see you both at this address tomorrow evening. Bring enough clothes for a long vacation, and everything you think you need to do your job,” he pointed at Akaashi, who seemed generally unimpressed. “That means _every tool you have_ , Handsome-kun.” 

“And guys,” Bokuto raised his hands and then put them on his hips, “I know it’s going to be hard without me, but you’re gonna have to work hard and stay strong. Since Keiji, er Akaashi is coming with me, Yukie, you’re in charge. Tell the morning team too, since I won’t be seeing them.”

“Sure thing boss,” the shorter girl with auburn hair gave a thumbs up.

It was almost indiscernible, but Akaashi swept a quick glance across the line of mechanics, and on cue they started.

“Don’t know how we’ll get by without you, boss,” the short man said.

“It’ll be hard, but we’ll do our best for the team,” the smiler called out.

“Please. Don’t go,” the grumpy doorman was a _terrible_ actor _._

In the center of the space, Bokuto grinned blissfully.

“And I thought Tobio was dense,” Oikawa grumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> saved the best for last. well not quite, but Kenma is very important don't worry, he's coming... you'll see. 
> 
> OH and I wrote Kuroo as a chemist way before docosahexaenoic acid. 
> 
> um.... and since this is their intro if you like Bokuaka and fairy tales and Kuroo being a cat, I kinda wrote this story and posted it all at once. which kinda means not many folks saw it. so here is a shameless self-promo for it:  
>  
> 
> [Quiet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6509641/chapters/14896051)


	7. Pure, unadulterated salt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter contains massive spoilers for Star Wars: The Force Awakens. to skip them, just jump from the paragraph that starts with "Star Wars" to the shortly following paragraph that starts with "Koutarou."

_Karasuno Mansion, 8pm_

 

Hinata Shouyou was _excited_.

Well, more so than usual. He kinda ran at a low level of pumped at all times, because there was almost always something going on that he was hyped about. But this was surpassing anything he’d felt in _years_. A heist! They’d done jobs before, tons of jobs, but nothing this big, ever.

On top of that, Hinata had honestly thought he’d never get to do one again. Not after that jerk broke his jaw and Kageyama went nuts about it.

But he’d gotten stronger since then!! Thanks to Ukai-senpai and Ukai-sensei and everybody else at the dojo, he’d gotten a _lot_ stronger. Hinata had _tried_ to tell him about it when they were on the train to Tokyo from Miyagi, but Kageyama wasn’t talking much. When he did, he just kept saying that if _he_ did his job right, Hinata wouldn’t have to fight at all, _dumbass_. Which wasn’t the point.

But then Hinata didn’t know what he’d expected. Kageyama’s general refusal to listen to what he had to say on the matter was basically the reason they’d broken up in the first place.

Even though he was a dick, it hurt to think about it.

It hurt a lot more than Hinata wanted to admit.

But fuck Kageyama, because Oikawa had picked out Hinata specifically. So there, _dumbass_.

Unfortunately, the job relied on Hinata completing a task at some point, something he was going to learn about very soon. Maybe they were gonna ask for a demonstration? He could do that. Of course he could. He’d probably need to change first if they wanted him to look like someone other than himself, but…

He didn’t _really_ feel like he was gonna puke, he was just keeping Yachi company because she was nervous.

Yeah…

So that was how, instead of getting to know the cool new people he was going to pull off a heist with (a _heist_ ), he was on a couch with three fidgety people that he already knew.

Yachi was sitting next to him dressed in a sensible brown skirt and cream-colored blouse that let everybody know she was a schoolteacher. She kept twirling her wedding ring and fiddling with the soft material of _his_ skirt. He thought about holding her hand, but he figured she didn’t want to look weak. She was definitely the tiniest person there, and also the only girl, which should. Not. Have. Mattered. Yachi was amazing. She probably had more skills than almost anyone in the room!

But he knew that it felt super weird to be the only girl. Knew it better than a lot of dudes.

On his other side were Asahi and Noya. The smaller man was perched on the arm of the couch but mostly leaning on Asahi’s shoulder. Asahi seemed nervous too, and Noya was muttering things to try to get him to calm down. Or maybe threats. You never could tell. Asahi had gotten another piercing since Hinata had seen him last: a bar, maybe? It seemed to go through the very top of his nose, with two studs peeking out underneath his eyebrows. It was weird, but it looked really cool too. Noya had gained weight, which made him look less like a skeleton, and his hair was back to its full height. He was wearing another one of those idiom tee shirts, but he wouldn’t sit still long enough for Hinata to read it.

In another corner of the room Tanaka was catching up with Daichi and Suga, laughing loudly and making Hinata really want to know what it was they were talking about. Tanaka hardly looked any different; he had a few more crinkles at the corners of his eyes and that was it. Suga looked exactly the same, Hinata thought he was even wearing the same white capris and turquoise sweater-vest that he’d worn the last time they’d done a job. Daichi was the only one who looked any older, with some grey at his temples that made him look very distinguished. Hinata sometimes forgot that they were ten years older than he was.

A few steps over, Kuroo was talking to a tall, skinny blonde guy with glasses and preppy designer clothes (he didn’t look like he really wanted to listen), and the loudest, craziest-looking man Hinata had ever seen. He was huge: really broad and almost as tall as Kuroo, or maybe taller? It was impossible to tell because his hair was even weirder than Kuroo’s rooster head; grey and black spikes swept up into two high crests. He was wearing a racing jacket that had a ton of patches on it, and ripped jeans. (But not on purpose, since one of his pockets was flapping loose in the corner exposing his lipstick-print boxers.) Kuroo looked a lot scruffier than usual, and he kept glancing at Oikawa with a sour face.

The few other people in the room were folks Hinata didn’t know: a really pretty dark-haired guy in black who looked fed up with the entire universe, a kid with freckles, green-streaked hair and a Pokémon shirt who seemed completely overwhelmed, and two sleepy-looking guys, one with weird pink hair and one with thick black eyebrows. The last two were whispering to each other and pointing at Oikawa.

They probably had good reason, because Oikawa and Kageyama were standing next to a white board in front of everyone and kind of making a scene. Again. Kageyama was wearing the same fitted blue tee shirt and jeans that he wore every day of his life, and Oikawa might have been wearing pajamas? Hinata couldn’t quite tell. Kageyama had told them that Oikawa was “looking like shit,” but Hinata hadn’t expected quite this level of shittiness. The old Oikawa had worn bespoke suits for _every job_.

Hinata was proud of himself for remembering what bespoke meant.

The current Oikawa finally said something that was either suuuper right, or too stupid to argue with, and Kageyama just held his arms at his sides and glared. He’d been upset the entire train ride over because Oikawa had done _something_ that messed with his setup, but he didn’t want to tell Hinata what it was. Which was probably because he thought he was beneath him, or something.

And Hinata knew it was stupid, it was really, really dumb, but he was _so jealous_ of Oikawa because at least Kageyama was looking at him. He probably shouldn’t feel jealous, because the guy was in rough shape. Also because Kageyama was a self-absorbed control freak that Hinata had _left_. But he felt that way anyway, because Hinata was really dumb sometimes. And love was also dumb and he hated it.

He joined Yachi in fiddling with his skirt, wondering when this thing was gonna start so he could think about robbery instead of romance.

“That looks really comfortable,” Asahi leaned over and gestured to what he was wearing. He was probably trying to calm Hinata down, or just calm himself down, or something.

It worked.

“It is!” Hinata beamed. He wasn’t gonna stop wearing them because they made his legs feel breezy and, like Asahi said, they were comfortable as hell. But people were almost _always_ weird about a dude in a skirt. He had to appreciate it when they weren’t.

“Oh!” Yachi perked up. “A-a-and the material, it kind of feels really satisfying when you rub it between your fingers. You should try, Asahi-san!”

Asahi smiled, “Only if it’s okay! I don’t want to just grab your clothes…”

“No, try it,” Hinata insisted, shoving the black filmy material at him. “It just feels super good. And relaxing too.”

By the time that Oikawa finally stood in front of the whiteboard and cleared his throat, Noya had also joined in, lying across Asahi to fiddle with Hinata’s skirt. It must have looked kind of weird for all four of them to be doing that, because Oikawa just stood there, head cocked, staring at them for a minute.

He had no right to judge. He was wearing pajamas.

“Ah… okay then,” Oikawa shook his head and clapped his hands with a huge smile. “Thank you all for coming! Some more willingly than others...”

“You got that right,” Kuroo snorted and Oikawa nodded back at him indulgently.

“As you all know,” he trilled, sounding like the lead in a musical, “we’re here to prepare for a job – that being the robbery of the Shiratorizawa Hotel and Casino – in approximately three weeks. I know most of you have taken a leave of absence from work, quit, or are otherwise self-employed, but I would like to specifically thank Tsukishima-sensei, who has, with the help of his brother as well as our most ethical of doctors, Sugawara-sensei, faked a brain aneurism. He is now excused from lecturing for the duration of this job and, if we’re successful, his life.”

“Lucky you’re such a jerk at work that no one’s gonna try and visit you in the hospital,” Tanaka threw his head back and cackled.

“Nice one, Ryuu,” Noya’s diaphragm rumbled against Hinata’s knees. He wasn't sure how either of them knew the guy but he sounded kind of awful. Or they sounded really awful.

Actually, his name sounded familiar…

“Awhhhh why you gotta pick on Tsukki…?” the crazy-looking man asked, looking seriously concerned. He seemed to know who the guy was too. Kuroo definitely did.

Hinata felt left out.

“Please don’t _call me that_ ,” hissed the enormously tall blonde man. At least his outburst let Hinata know who Tsukishima was. His tone let him know that he didn’t need to feel bad for him at all. And his name finally reminded him of the other Tsukishima he knew.

This sourpuss was Akiteru’s brother??

He didn’t know how they could be related.

“What. The _Hell._ Is _wrong_ with you _people?_ Kageyama roared in his scariest voice. At this point the sound was just old, irritating news to Hinata, but it was generally scary so you’d think it would shut people up. Instead it just seemed to make everyone angrier, especially Noya, who shot up, ready for a fight. Without much further provocation everyone was arguing, except for the three of them still sitting on the couch. Hinata was only there because Yachi clearly needed him. Otherwise he’d be right next to Noya, yelling in Kageyama’s stupid face for bossing him around.  

The chaos went on for about a minute, steadily growing in intensity with each passing second, much like Yachi’s nervous trembling. The tension grew and it felt like something was gonna get bad when Daichi calmly marched to the center of the room with a wide smile on his face. Hinata knew that was a sign to sit down and shut up, but only about half the room even noticed him at all.

“Hello," he announced jovially, voice echoing against the walls like a thunderclap.

Everybody shut up.

"I’m Samawura Daichi, your host.” He smiled just a little wider and the hair on the back of Hinata’s neck stood on end. “I’m funding this operation. This is one of my homes, which I typically rent out to foreign entourages for more money than any of you make in a year. Except for maybe those of you running a gang.”

A gang?? Who was running a gang?? So cool!!!

“Oh! That’s why it’s so posh…” Kuroo whispered, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Daichi ignored him and scanned the room slowly. “If you cannot manage to behave like professionals this job is going to fail, and I will be very disappointed.” The couch inhabitants took a deep breath. 

“Please don’t disappoint me.”

Everyone except the freckled guy fell into a nervous silence. He had gotten the hiccups somehow. Maybe out of fear. Hinata felt bad for him; he knew what that was like. And he was actually still a little nervous himself. It didn’t take much to get these people fighting.

“ _Trying to frighten him would be unwise, Bokuto-san_ ,” he heard someone say in a quiet, authoritative voice.

At the front of the room Oikawa exhaled, then ran his hand through his hair, which was messed up because he’d been arguing with Kageyama ( _again_ ) almost as loudly as the crazy-looking guy had been arguing with Tsukishima.

“Let’s try again, shall we?” He flashed a charming smile, but his voice was full of snakes.

Behind him, Kageyama smirked. Agressively. It was kind of hot. Hinata wanted to throw himself out of the window but he couldn’t look away.

“Since we do need to get along, and that might happen more swiftly if we had some modicum of respect for one another’s strengths, I’d like us to go ahead with introductions. This will also make it a bit easier to understand how the plan itself will play out. So, each of you tell us your name and where your expertise lies, please.”

Oikawa looked at Kageyama first, who was staring at Hinata. It felt like they were stuck together by the eyeballs.

Oikawa cleared his throat, loudly.

“Kageyama Tobio. Strategy,” Kageyama said with a quick bow when he realized they were all waiting on him. Then he turned to Oikawa and frowned. “I can do a lot of other stuff but I never do, thanks to him.”    

“He pulled me ten vertical meters out of a skylight, and I’ve been packing on the pounds lately,” Kuroo volunteered.

“Tobio-chan’s our backup in case we need to get anyone out of the building fast,” Oikawa ruffled his hair, a gesture that Kageyama seemed to want to kill him for. “He's also the one who set up the plan we’ll be using. So if you end up in jail or otherwise inconvenienced, he’s the one to blame.”

Tanaka cackled.

Daichi gave a little half salute because he was next. “I’m Daichi… again, like I said, funding this. And I own this place. Just kind of…watching,” he turned to the whiteboard, “Oikawa, I don’t think it’s necessary I introduce myself twice.”

Oikawa just beamed at him.

“Suga!” The silver-haired man gave a little wave. “I’m going to cook! Also, I’m a pediatric brain surgeon. But I hope you don’t need that skillset for several reasons, the main one being that I'm on sabbatical.”

Everyone laughed. Next up was Tanaka, who crossed his arms and took a step forward.

“Tanaka Ryuunosuke, muscle.” He’d started off with his most terrifying face, but it didn’t seem to be scaring anyone, so he backed off. “And you know, whatever else. I think I'm the only one who doesn’t like dick here, so I bring the entitled straight idiot perspective to the table. Go ahead, Yacchan.”

Yachi raised her hand in a wave, and Hinata grabbed the other one to keep her from shaking herself off the couch. “Yachi Hitoka, s-s-safecracking."

“THAT LITTLE THING?” The crazy-looking guy's jaw dropped.

“Botuko-san…” the pretty man beside him crossed his arms and gave him a disappointed look. Hinata was starting to see why he was so fed up.

Oh! It was his turn!

“Hinata Shouyou, and…” He realized there wasn’t an easy way to describe what he did. “I’m really good at getting into places where I’m not supposed to be. Since I’m so…” Of course he’d have to admit this, “…small, nobody notices me. I get in and then make some kind of distraction. So I'm a decoy, I guess? Oh, and I can fight now! Oikawa I don’t know if you know that or not but–”

“You can _not_ , dumbass,” Kageyama interrupted him, jaws snapping like a crocodile.

That was it. That was just it. It had been fine when he'd said that between the two of them, all worried and shaking because Hinata’s mouth had been wired shut and it had been upsetting for everyone. But Kageyama had been hurt before too! He’d literally gotten _stabbed in the back_ for a job, which could have killed him, and Hinata had never, ever told him he wasn’t allowed to do what he wanted.

“Yes I _can_ , Stupidyama!” He stood up, yanking Yachi’s arm by accident. “You wanna see? You wanna go right now? Because I’m ready.”

Kageyama just scowled at him. He didn't even acknowledge what he was saying. And Hinata was ready, he was ready to rush him and flip him onto his ass: he totally would, the _jerk_ , but a steady pressure on his head was bringing him back down to the couch. 

Someone else in the room, someone who was going to get his kneecaps broken, was murmuring something like, “ _ah… the mating dance of the idiot_.”

Asahi smiled down at him with a look that said, "I'm sorry but you need to calm down a bit." Even if he was wrong, it wasn't like Hinata could stand up and argue. Asahi was crazy strong.

“Azumane Asahi," his captor announced. "Makeup, and uh… looking scary? I guess… Hopefully…um…” he trailed off, looking unsure of how to finish. There wasn’t much that could make him _not_ look scary: he had like thirty tattoos, his nose was pierced _next to his eyes_ somehow, and there were a bunch of other piercings in his ears and lip, but Asahi managed it.

“Nishinoya Yuu!” Noya did what he did best, and leapt onto the back of the couch, holding himself up and balancing on one hand. “Gymnastics, contortion, and kicking ass!”

"Nice!" The crazy-looking guy cheered. Hinata nodded in agreement. Noya was _so cool_.

“Kuroo Tetsuro…” Kuroo yawned like he wasn’t super interested in being there. “Explosives, general chemistry, and housebreaking.” It was weird that he wasn't at least a little excited, but judging by the creepy grin on Oikawa's face, Kuroo hadn't had much of a say in coming.

The freckled boy with the floppy green-streaked hair smiled nervously. “Yamaguchi Tadashi, uh… aeronautical engineering and… remote piloting?”

Wow. That was a lot more impressive than Hinata had expected.

“Tsukishima Kei, computer security,” the tall man sounded super bored. And also like the person who’d insulted Hinata earlier. Why was he being like that? Didn’t he know they were all in this together?

The crazy-looking guy was up next, and Hinata was excited to hear who he was. “Bokuto Koutarou, professional driver! And also crasher! And booster of cars!” He looked like he wanted to say some more but the guy next to him, the pretty one with the long eyelashes, spoke up before he could.

“Akaashi Keiji. Mechanic, machinist, and auto theft.” 

“AkaAAaashi," Bokuto whined, looking very disappointed, "you can drive too!”

“Indeed, Bokuto-san. I'm sure several of the others also have a driver's license.”

But who had the gang, Hinata wanted to know?

Right next to Oikawa the pink-haired man smirked like he wanted to say something mean but wasn’t going to. “Hanamaki Takahiro, inside man. I manage the casino’s largest pit during the day and am statistically most likely to betray you. I should know, because I live with…” He held out his arms, showcasing the tall, sleepy-looking man next to him.

“Matsukawa Issei, accountant. Not... a statistician? I don’t know why I’m here, to be quite honest, but Oikawa is legally my charge so let me know if he needs handling.”

“Mine too," Hanamaki put his arm around Matsukawa and leaned forward. They seemed really close and Hinata felt another pang of jealousy. "I also pretend to be him on the phone with his parole officer. So that’s another skill: imitating Oikawa. Aren't you writing this down, Tooru-chan?”

“Nice! Show us!” Noya bounced on the back of the couch.

“So you all know _me_ , of course,” Oikawa interrupted, trying to be smooth but looking super offended. “I’ll be making certain that you all have what you need in order to work well together. So obviously, if you’re unhappy or having an interpersonal conflict, you can call me.”

“Don’t,” Matsukawa advised. “He’ll use all of your weaknesses against you.”

“Talk to Kageyama instead," Hanamaki smirked. "He seems like a _fantastic_ mediator.”

Hinata had to cover his mouth to keep from cracking up.

“ _Now_ ,” Oikawa said through his teeth, “in order to make certain that we all get used to working with each other, I’m going to show you a bit of tough love. Tobio, flip the whiteboard and show them the rooming chart.” Oikawa was closer to the thing than Kageyama was, but that didn’t seem to matter.

Kageyama kicked the whiteboard to flip it over, but it smacked him on the head on the way around. Hinata couldn’t keep from laughing, so he tried to turn it into a cough.

Based on Kageyama’s glare, he hadn’t bought the ruse and was about to yank all of Hinata’s hair out.

 “Okay!” Oikawa ignored them and pointed at what looked like the layout of the house. “We’re going to room you by task and yes, I know some of you are in relationships with each other, or desperately long to be.”

Hinata peered around the room trying to figure out who that was.

“I know this is going to be a sacrifice, but it’s one we’re going to have to make for the time being. Feel free to sneak in a quickie wherever it’s convenient.” Everyone looked angry but Kuroo, who for the first time that night seemed a little excited. Not by the quickie part, he’d looked excited before that. 

“First, and most important,” Oikawa pointed at a room on the second floor, then at Yamaguchi and Akaashi, “Freckles-chan and Handsome-kun, you’re together. Figure out how to build me a drone that can cut through a concrete roof, lift two tons, and fly five kilometers without detection. Handsome-kun hasn’t been very honest with all of us; he's not just a mechanic, he builds Formula race cars, which I’ve come to understand are more or less ground-airplanes. So that’s a feat of aeronautical engineering in and of itself. Likewise, Freckles-chan has secrets that are in some demand by foreign governments.”

“Calm down, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said to the sputtering man (Hinata was certain he had to be his employee or something), while Yamaguchi looked at Akaashi with awe. Next to him, Tsukishima huffed.  

Oikawa tapped the next room. “Tsukishima and Yacchan. You have one task together, it is sixty seconds long, and it will make or break our entire enterprise. Get in sync with each other. I understand that you two are opposites, both physically and emotionally, so this is going to be a heartwarming adventure, isn’t it?”

Tsukishima sighed wearily and Yachi trembled even more. Hinata felt super bad for her.

“Shrimpy and Ryuu-chan,” Oikawa continued, pointing out his room, which was right next to Yachi’s so he could always sneak her in if the glasses-guy was just a total monster. “You’re going to have to do something very uncomfortable together, so you need to bond. Drink beers, eat junk food, your job is to have fun!” The two of them punched the air victoriously. This was actually the _best_. Hinata had been terrified Oikawa would put him with Kageyama just for a laugh. 

“Of course, that’s in-between any physical training you find it necessary to do, which is advisable. Also, Straight Guy, you’re going to need to help Hinata present himself as much like society's inaccurate and stereotypical version of a beautiful woman as possible.” 

There it was. A woman. It was always a woman, a pretty one too. Although a kid wasn’t likely to be in a casino, and an old dude would just sit at the slots the whole time, so there weren’t a lot of other options, but still… he’d done it enough times to know it was starting to feel not great to put on gender like it was a costume or something. Although it _had_ helped him discover that skirts were super comfortable. And it was going to get him a billion yen.

So...

But Oikawa didn’t seem to notice or care that Hinata was feeling not as awesome as he had been a minute before. He just barreled on with the room assignments.

“Normally I’d put Tetsu-chan and Yuu-chan in the same room, but you’ve worked together before, and this job is old hat for both of you. I trust you’ll practice together more than enough. More important,” Oikawa beamed at Asahi, which was probably more overwhelming than reassuring, “is that Asa-chan stays happy and relaxed, so Yuu-chan, please room with him.”

Despite the creepy smile Asahi let out an audible sigh of relief, and Noya jumped back into his lap, grinning widely. They were being really up front with their physical affection, and Hinata wondered if something had changed between the two of them. Last time he’d seen them they'd just had a friendly breakup so they could “put their lives back together.” They'd seemed miserable that way, but insisted it was for the best.

 Maybe things were different now. Granted, Noya was a very touchy-feely friend to everyone, but still.

Hinata felt really jealous.

“Kou-chan,” Oikawa looked uncomfortable as he turned to Bokuto. Like he didn’t know how to handle someone for once. “You’re going to be working a lot with Freckles-chan as well, but your darling mechanic needs to concentrate. He will not do so with you around because you are a perpetual motion machine.”

Bokuto shrank into a smaller version of himself. Even his hair seemed droopy.

“I’d also like to put you with Tetsu to make you happy,” Oikawa continued, looking like it thrilled him to squash somebody now that he realized he wasn’t going to get hit, “but I’m certain you two will burn the house down. So you’re with me big guy. I hope you enjoy being woken up by night terrors.”

No one really knew what to say to that, so Oikawa kept going. 

"Suga and Daichi are in the penthouse on the fourth floor, of course, as they own this building. Tetsu, you’re either with Kageyama or in a room to yourself, lady’s choice.”

“He wants a room to himself,” Kageyama announced immediately. Hinata almost wanted to make a “the lady has chosen” joke, but reminded himself that being a lady wasn’t actually an insult.

“Thaaat’s not gonna work,” Bokuto said awkwardly.

Oikawa blinked impatiently, “I know you want to _hang_ but–”

“Nah, it’s the whole… getting woke up a bunch thing. Sorry man, that sounds rough. Trust me I kinda get that shit, but it’s not gonna work out for me.”

“I’m sorry that the mental and emotional scars from my recent time in prison are an _inconvenience_ to you, _Bokuto-san_ , but it’s not like I can just turn them off so you can get your well-overdue beauty sleep.”

Steam might as well have started coming out of Kuroo’s ears. Akaashi calmly grabbed one of his shoulders to hold him back. But he didn’t just look fed up anymore. There was a coldness in his eyes that made Hinata shudder.

“Bokuto-san needs consistent uninterrupted sleep or he risks being unable to do his part of the job,” Akaashi explained, eyes boring into Oikawa like daggers. “I’d recommend he room with Kageyama and you take the single room yourself, Oikawa-san. Or you and Kageyama share since you are doing so much of the planning–”

“You’ve got quite the little minder, Bokuto,” Tsukishima sneered. “Do you have a mechanic… or a nanny?”

Akaashi’s head rotated gracefully and he gave the taller man an appraising look. Good thing he looked like such a gentle person. Hinata would have torn that jerk to pieces, obviously.

“Eeeehhhh shouldn’t have said that, Tsukki,” Kuroo shook his head.

How did they _all_ know this guy?

Before anyone could stop him Akaashi took two steps, drew back his arm, and socked Tsukishima square in the jaw. The sound was muted, but Tsukishima’s collapse was not. He staggered back and clattered to the floor in an embarrassing slurry of limbs. The one downside of being tall was that you fell hard. 

“Tsukki!” Yamaguchi yelped.

Daichi rushed over, clearly to stop whatever was happening, but Kuroo was already in-between the two men, standing stock still, his hand hovering over Akaashi’s shoulder like he was afraid of touching him and making it worse. Bokuto, who had spent the first few moments in shock (making a noise like a leaky radiator) approached Akaashi from behind. He wrapped his arms around his waist and whispering something in his ear.

The cold thawed in the beautiful man’s eyes.

Still wrapped in Bokuto’s arms, Akaashi looked past Kuroo and down at the tall blond with a faint smile. Hinata hadn’t had a lot of opportunities to think someone was dignified in his life, but there was no other word for it.

“Do I have your respect now, Tsukishima-san? Or is it necessary for me to sit down and take a written exam before you’ll view me as a sentient being and not a thing you can speak about as though I’m not here?”

Hinata felt pretty certain he knew who was running a gang now.

“Nice.” Kuroo snickered at Tsukishima, punching a hole in the tense atmosphere. “You just managed to piss off the most long-suffering person in the room, if not the country. I’m impressed.”

“S-sorry, Akaashi-san,” Tsukishima muttered, nursing his jaw. It sounded like maybe the second apology he’d made in his life.

“Apology accepted,” Akaashi said mildly, as though nothing had happened. “Would you like me to get you some ice?”

Yamaguchi knelt down next to Tsukishima, probably to help him up. But the freckled kid seemed to be paying more attention to Akaashi, while his soon-to-be roommate shook out his fingers and realigned his knuckles. Bokuto hovered behind him, fretting against his neck.

Even from where he was sitting, Hinata could tell that this thing they were supposed to build wasn’t going to get made very easily.

Or maybe at all.  

But still, that had been _so cool_! Like in a movie or something. Crack! Slam! This _whole thing_ was like a movie. Except Kageyama who was ruining it by being a grouch who wouldn’t let people try new moves they’d spent _four years_ learning.

Hinata tried not to wiggle on the couch, but he was wiggling anyway.

“I’ll room with Bokuto,” Kageyama volunteered unexpectedly, solving the problem everyone had forgotten. “I snore though.”

Bokuto gave him a thumbs up and Oikawa sighed, looking progressively more frazzled by the minute.

“Why doesn’t anyone want to be _my_ roommate?” Kuroo protested, his smile replaced by a pout. “I’m a really nice guy!”

“Alright then! We’re going home, Oikawa,” Hanamaki waved cheerfully, pulling Matsukawa behind him. “See you whenever, don’t infuriate too many more terrifying criminals… but who cares? We’re all probably going to jail anyway! Look forward to working with you all!”

“This feels like a team building retreat,” Tsukishima complained as Yamaguchi helped him up from the floor, “though… getting punched broke up the monotony some.”

“I think it feels like training camp,” Bokuto announced. “And I’m gonna train harder than every one of you here, so watch out!”

Nope, he sure was not.

“Not me!” Hinata jumped up (finally), bouncing on his tiptoes. “I’m gonna train so much harder than you! You won’t come close!”

Bokuto laughed with more of a “ho” than a “ha” and the sound shook the room. “I like your style, short stuff! Why don’t we train _together_ then?”

Hinata nodded excitedly, “Really? Let’s do it!”

“Whatever this is, it’s starting out _great_ ,” Oikawa grumbled behind them. “Alright, tomorrow at eight pm we debrief the full logistics of the plan. Until then, get settled in.”

Everyone started talking at once, getting ready to leave the room.

“Oh, wait!” Oikawa’s voice picked up a slight lilt, catching everyone’s attention, “Makki-chan wasn’t wrong, by the way. If we have any more physical violence in this building I will, in fact, use everything you love to crush you. And unlike the rest of you, I have _nothing_ to lose.”

No one seemed to care that he was wearing pajamas anymore.

“Sleep well my darling criminals!”

Oikawa flounced out of the room.

“Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Kuroo, Bokuto,” Kageyama barked. “Come here.”

The four men consented with varying degrees of willingness while everyone else went to grab their stuff. Hinata put his arm around Yachi’s shoulders, since it was a perfect time to get her set up before Tsukishima arrived in their room. Also… that way he didn’t have to watch Kageyama interact with everyone he considered essential to the plan.

The jerk.

 

_Karasuno Mansion, 10 pm_

 

It took four passes for Oikawa to work up the nerve to knock.

He had just threatened to destroy this person and everything he loved, so maybe his anxiety wasn’t completely off base. But this was life or death. He had to. And… he had some suspicions about just what kind of person he was dealing with. Only time would tell if they were right, but if he poked a little he might find out faster.

It was now or never.

"Handsome-kuuuun!" Oikawa knocked on the door. After a pause that felt just a bit too long it slid open, revealing both the man in question (who was in the middle of hanging up his clothes) and Bokuto, who was lying on one of the beds in pajama pants with cars on them. His shirt was rolled up and he was scratching his stomach while throwing a loosely crumpled wad of paper at the ceiling. He made disappointed noises when it didn't fall straight back down.

Bokuto was intentionally not looking in Oikawa's direction. He was pouting.

How… revolting.

"Yes, Oikawa-san? How can I help you?"

Akaashi really was the last person on earth he wanted to ask for any help. He was ruining _everything_ and had a much more foreboding air than anyone else he’d recruited, but Oikawa was desperate.

"Well, you see, I need a bit of a favor…”

Bokuto huffed on the bed, but Akaashi nodded with mild encouragement. As though he wasn’t the same person who had terrified a room full of people with just his eyes an hour ago.

Oikawa dove right in. “As it turns out, you're the person here who's closest to my size. As is probably obvious, I don't really have many of my clothes from before my incarceration - just a lot of things from high school that are very much out of style, and a very impressive collection of Star Wars shirts."

"Star Wars?” Bokuto didn’t seem quite so interested in fuming anymore. “Oh man, Oikawa, did you see the new one? So rad, but I cried so hard when Han Solo got killed by his kid, didn't I Keiji?"

Oikawa’s soul jumped out of his body.

This was the worst thing that had ever happened to him in his life. Bokuto Koutarou had exacted the cruelest revenge imaginable. Without even trying.

"There was a...?” he stammered helplessly. “Han... Solo...? _Kid_ …?"

"Koutarou, can you wait until someone's confirmed that they've watched a film before you give away the plot?" Akaashi sighed angrily, like this wasn’t the first time this had happened. Beneath his deep grief over being spoiled for something he hadn’t known existed, Oikawa felt even more frustration. Because he still had _no idea_ what this pretty guy’s deal was.

The grey-haired menace sat up, "Oh yeah, my bad. Sorry Oikawa.”

Sorry did not cut it, but he was on a mission.

“Although… you kinda deserved it…”

“ _Koutarou_.”

He took a deep shuddering breath. Life had to go on.

"As I was saying. Handsome-kun, the fact is I need to look good for an appointment tomorrow. I don't have the funds or the time to go shopping due to my recent imprisonment. You seem to be one of the few here who has fashion sense but isn’t an ethereally slender giant made of pure, unadulterated salt.”

“Hey! I dress awesome!” Bokuto scratched his stomach. Oikawa could see boxers with lipsticks printed all over them peeking out of his pajama pants.

He chose to leave it be.

“I know that we got off to a bit of an uncertain start, but I was hoping..."

"Of course you can borrow something of mine, Oikawa-san,” Akaashi smiled gently. Much, much more gently than Oikawa expected. “What is it exactly that you need?"

There was no point in beating around the bush.

"I'll be visiting my ex tomorrow to pick up my old things and I’d like him to leave the encounter feeling both horny and emotionally devastated. So something that will do that."

Akaashi gave a single sharp nod then turned to the bed, "Koutarou. What do you feel is my scariest, sexiest ensemble?"

"That suit thing," Bokuto answered with no hesitation whatsoever. "The one you wear when you wanna scare the shit out of the hashiriya. Also, this is the gayest heist in the history of heists, I think. Like one straight guy. What a victory for equal rights."

"There's no reason to separate us from the hashiriya, Koutarou,” Akaashi ignored his observations completely. “You’re the boss of a hashiriya gang. In fact, Suzumeda won a sizable amount of money racing for us last night. In a race two weeks ago, Onaga skidded into a post in the Mercedes, totaling it. The same car that you _insisted_ needed a two-million-yen paint job to ‘keep up appearances.’"

“Yeah, but I’m better than those clowns,” Bokuto ignored the bulk of the lecture. “They’re not in the same league! So I guess that’d make me the big boss! The kingpin!”

Akaashi blinked at him.

“But yeah,” the larger man continued, oblivious, “that suit you wear when you're a hashiriya… vice-boss. But don't put it on if we can't sleep in the same room, because I don't think Kageyama wants to deal with dreams or whatever."

Ignoring his… husband? Boyfriend? Legal charge? Akaashi walked over to his newly-filled closet and pulled out a hanger draped with a black suit and a white shirt ironed so well Oikawa could see the creases from across the room. He handed it over with a benign expression.

At this point Oikawa didn’t have any pride left. So he asked the question he’d been wondering since he first saw those perfect black waves.

“Just as a point of interest:” he scratched his chin, “what kind of shampoo do you use, Handsome-kun? Mine was discontinued at some point and I’ve been having some difficulty finding a replacement.”

On the bed, Bokuto started to laugh, and a very faint hint of pink dusted Akaashi’s cheeks.

“I don’t use shampoo.”

That… was absolutely disgusting.

But at least Oikawa didn’t have to feel that he was somehow inferior to this man anymore.

“Are you telling me that you don’t wash your hair?”

“I do,” the pink darkened, “but not with soap. It strips the–”

“He uses honey!” Bokuto was still cracking up. “And then aloe. And not even the stuff you buy in stores! Like, he picks a leaf off a plant and squishes the insides on his head. When he first started doing it, he left grease stains on his pillow.”

Akaashi tried to maintain his dignity but it wasn’t working, “Unfortunately, it takes some time for your scalp to adjust. It would not be an immediate solution. Also, the whole process is more suited for curly hair…”

Oikawa thanked him with an enormous smirk and left the room as quickly as he could get away. Fucking miraculous weirdos who could rub whatever the hell they wanted on their heads and end up with perfect tousled _not greasy_ waves.

It was repulsive and he was so jealous.

The slide of the door opening behind him made him start, but he didn’t drop the suit or forget where he was. An improvement over last week. Well done, Tooru. 

"Oikawa-san?" Akaashi's head peeked out. His face was still red, but there was a tiny, smug smile on his face. "You should know that the suit dry cleans surprisingly well. Best of luck."

Touché, Handsome-kun.

Touché.

 

_Five minutes later…_

 

The next negotiation was much easier once he’d fought off the wave of infuriated embarrassment left over from of the previous one.

"Give me your ultramarine wingtips, Tobio," Oikawa demanded as he flicked the lights on. He hadn’t knocked. What was the point? 

The sleeping form he was addressing rolled over and grunted.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Oikawa leaned down to his ear. “The blue green shoes!” he shouted.

"Get your own damn shoes, Oikawa-san,” Tobio rolled into a ball.

Oikawa ripped all of the blankets off the bed, leaving Tobio curled up in the most boring sleepwear imaginable. "I'm the one who told you to buy them in the first place, and I _know_ you brought them because Shrimpy loves them. Now _give me the shoes_."

Tobio slouched up into a sitting position and yawned, "Why me? Can't you just bother Kuroo or somebody..."

"Kuroo's feet are too large, Akaashi's feet are too small, but your feet, my dearest protégé, are just right. I'm meeting someone tomorrow," he admitted after a pause. "I need to look... presentable."

Tobio yanked his blankets from Oikawa’s hands and fell back onto the bed.

"They're in my bag. Just don't get jizz on them. And they're _not_ to impress that _dumbass_ , you dumbass."

Oikawa dug around through the bag, filled with the most boring contents anyone could possibly think of, and yanked out the shoes. When he got to the door (leaving the light on), he asked the most pressing question on his mind.

" _Why does everyone assume I'm going to get cum on their clothes_??"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gross.
> 
> as always, thanks the lesetoilesfous, my beloved beta
> 
> i can’t believe how blessed i am with art here. sevenswells drew bokuto in his [ awesome outfit](http://sevenswells.tumblr.com/post/150260020537/and-three-more-versions-because-i-cant-choose) and liv drew [akaashi](http://livecement.tumblr.com/post/153913883880/or-is-it-necessary-for-me-to-sit-down-and-take-a) post-punch


	8. Out of your system

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes an example of unhealthy polyamory, as well as a pretty textbook example of completely consensual hate sex. In theory hate sex is pretty hot. In practice it can be kind of emotionally awful. If you wanna skip it, jump from the dialog that starts with "Fine then" to "Are you going to..."
> 
> You'll know exactly where I mean.

_Oikawa Tooru’s bedroom, Karasuno Mansion, 3am_

 

“ **Iwa-chan**! **Hajime, _please_**!!”

He was shaking. No, being shaken. Maybe both. It didn’t matter because he couldn’t breathe. His lungs weren’t working.

“Oikawa. _Tooru_. Come on man, you gotta wake up. Stop yelling, it's okay. You're safe.”

Oikawa’s eyes flew open. He braced himself with both arms and shot up with a shuddering gasp. The room was still dark. What little light was coming in from the street revealed the glittering eyes of the lanky person leaning over him.

“You can really yell when you’re in the mood,” Tetsu said as he edged back a small amount, giving him more space to breathe.

Oikawa desperately sucked air into his lungs while Tetsu pulled him up into a sitting position, rubbing firm circles into his back. “Gotta breathe slower or you’ll still feel like whatever you were dreaming about’s coming true.”

“It came true already,” Oikawa rasped, trying to remember how his lungs worked.

In three, out five. In three, out five.

The light reflected in Tetsu's eyes disappeared for a bit as he closed them. In pity. Which was all well and good but what was Oikawa supposed to do with pity? No matter how well-intentioned his compassion was, Tetsu’s pity just made him feel pathetic on top of everything else.

And that was the one thing he tried to fight off more than anything.

Oikawa Tooru was a lot of things, but he was not and would never be _pathetic_.

“Want me to stay?” Tetsu asked conversationally, giving him even more space. “Otherwise you might wake up Bo, then Akaashi’s gonna punch you too. Actually, never mind. That’s a fight I want to see.”

It was dark, so Tetsu couldn’t see the tears that had gathered in the corner of Oikawa’s eyes. At least he hoped he couldn’t.

There was a long pause, and he could feel that Tetsu was on the verge of leaving.

But he didn't want him to.

“…I’m the big spoon,” Oikawa insisted with haughty annoyance, lifting up the blanket so the taller man could get in.

He was never the big spoon, but Tetsu didn’t know that. Or maybe he guessed, but he certainly wasn’t saying anything. Either way, clinging tightly to something with a heartbeat, Oikawa made it through the rest of the night without waking up once.

A new first. Well done, Tooru.

_6:30am_

 

Suga liked to cook. He liked to keep a clean house, he liked to iron shirts. He liked to take care of Daichi: not because his husband couldn’t take care of himself, but because it made Suga happy to care for people. The only thing he did not like was being called “motherly." Attaching gender to behaviors, especially nurturing ones, was utter bullshit with no neurological basis, and he would personally fight any jackass evolutionary biologist who claimed otherwise.

People talked to Suga. They poured out their hearts and he filled them with hope. He was happy to do so. Helping people work out their issues brought him nothing but joy. But. There was a reason that Suga was a neurosurgeon instead of a neuropsychologist, and that was because Suga was not neutral and never, ever would be. He had an agenda, and that agenda could vaguely be defined as “Suga knows best.” He understood the power of suggestion and he used it to achieve the ends that he believed were best for both the people who came to him and the world at large.

Simply put, Suga was highly skilled at getting people to think what he wanted them to think.

There was a word for that and it was _manipulative_.

Oikawa was good at manipulation too. Very good. But he focused on group dynamics, drew on the natural desire of all humans to be social, to be part of his _pack_. It was a skill Daichi himself had mastery over, though he was a lot more noble about it. Daichi had no idea that he was doing anything beyond being encouraging, as opposed to Oikawa who led people like a conductor leads an orchestra. Regardless: in either case the overarching social instinct was what came into play.

Suga’s mastery was over the individual heart. 

Occasionally some people were immune. Like the dean of the hospital where he worked, for instance. In the current group, Suga estimated there were three (perhaps four, if you counted Hanamaki) people that he couldn’t sway. But the two most troublesome were sitting across from him while he prepared their breakfast. They’d woken up earlier than anyone else, and Suga suspected that it was a direct result of their incarceration.

Because he was _certain_ that Akaashi Keiji had done time.

Oikawa was diligently working over something on his iPad, dressed in another unfortunate ensemble pieced together from the sad remains of his high school life. Suga had offered several times to take him clothes shopping, his treat, but Oikawa had waved him off, saying he didn’t have time for that. Yet. Akaashi, neatly dressed and looking mildly fed up (it seemed to be his default expression), was writing in a leather notebook in a firm, steady hand, fingers splayed on the opposite page. The man’s hands themselves were a study in contradiction: slim and elegant, but permanently stained from grease, calloused and scarred from work.

Suga was focused on chopping the vegetables for the miso. He felt he was being pretty normal, but both of them had probably noticed that he was giving them a once over.

There was a delicate glass tension in the air that was on the verge of shattering.

Oikawa broke it with a sledgehammer.

“How was your night, Handsome-kun?”

Akaashi sat his notebook down and turned politely so that he and Oikawa were facing each other. The mechanic was well-mannered in the way that a surgeon is gentle: delicately moving aside what was unnecessary in order to efficiently slice and carve the way to his goal. A small part of Suga, one which he rarely indulged, wanted to watch his two guests tear each other to pieces just to see what would happen. But of course that wouldn’t achieve anything and it also wouldn’t be very nice.

“I slept well once Bokuto-san could be convinced to go to his own room," Akaashi responded mildly. "I hope Kageyama can handle snoring, because he is very good at keeping someone up all night.”

“Is that _right_?” Suga leaned over and placed cups of tea in front of each of them. Oikawa snickered.

“Unfortunately yes,” Akaashi sipped his tea then paused, his cheeks coloring. “I didn’t mean it sexually, though that… also applies.”

“And your roommate? How did he sleep?” Oikawa idly pushed, sacrificing the chance to get some kind of dig in at Akaashi’s expense. He was being sloppy. At least, it seemed that way to Suga. 

“I have no idea. He didn’t come in until after I fell asleep, and he was still sleeping this morning when I left. I don’t think he even brought his things into the room, unless he’s a lot less clumsy when he thinks no one is watching.”

Akaashi thought for a moment. “Actually, I suspect that he is.”

Oikawa didn’t respond. The only sound was the steady chop, chop of Suga’s santoku.

“But that’s obviously not what you want to know Oikawa-san. So please, if there is something, just say it.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t _punched his boyfriend in the face_.”

Akaashi blinked slowly. “Tsukishima and Yamaguchi are not involved at this point. However, if Bokuto-san had said something similar I wouldn’t have stopped anyone here from hitting him, as he would have brought it on himself.”

“Wait… how do you know that?” Suga leaned forward, ignoring the vegetables. No one was up yet anyway. He hadn’t anticipated that Akaashi would be a gossip vector, but now that he was, Suga would be damned if he let the opportunity pass.

There was a long pause, with Akaashi gazing off into the middle distance: probably deciding whether the trust his information would earn him was worth the cost of disclosing it.

_That meant it was going to be good._

“Bokuto-san and Kuroo have a history with Tsukishima. They badgered him about his new boyfriend when we were coming in, and he nearly bit their heads off with his denial. Yamaguchi was very much embarrassed in the process, though whether by the question or the vehement negative response I couldn’t say.”

“A _history_ , huh?” Akaashi’s eyes closed wearily at Oikawa’s insinuation. “So this altercation was less about pride and more about jealousy, hmmm?”

“Oikawa-san, if I punched everyone that Koutarou had a sexual history with, my fingers would snap off long before my ill-conceived revenge came to fruition. Not to mention that Kuroo is among that number, and he’s one of my dearest friends.”

Suga silently blessed this deadpan fountain of scandal.

Akaashi took a long sip of tea then set down his cup with a sharp, precise sound. “I apologize, Oikawa-san, but what it really comes down to is that I’m accustomed to working with a different class of criminal.”

“Which would be what, precisely?” Oikawa growled dangerously. Suga wanted to tell him not to take it personally, but these two needed to air things out. He resolved to leave them to it while he watched from a safe distance.

“The kind that would have broken Tsukishima’s kneecaps.”

“You really _are_ a gang boss,” Suga marveled, immediately breaking his commitment to shut up.

“No,” Akaashi’s eyes met his. The dark green was intense in the kitchen lights. “Bokuto-san is. I simply make certain he receives the respect he deserves. Continuous mid-level criminal activity is a tenuous position at best, especially when you’re committed to not actually hurting anyone. I’m not a physically intimidating man, and Bokuto-san is rather… capricious, at times. We could not survive as we do without a menacing reputation. And it’s my job to maintain it.”

Oikawa’s anger faded into something vague and gloomy, and then he tossed his hair and put his charming mask back on.

“That’s all well and good, but what are you going to do about the situation now?”

“I would apologize to Yamguchi-san,” Akaashi took another sip of tea. He sounded authentically contrite. “But I don’t think it will do any good. I don’t believe that I’m the only person with whom he is angry, or even the primary one. If I know Kuroo, you can expect the matter to be resolved by the end of the day. Although I still expect a large challenge, which will be finding a method of collaboration that works between two people as disparate as Yamaguchi-san and myself.” 

Either one of them was poised to point out the broad lack of self-awareness in that statement, but their conversation was interrupted by the sound of two people walking down the hall: one much nearer than the other.

“Tobio-chan, what are you doing up this early?” Oikawa called out before the man was even visible.

Suga and Akaashi exchanged amused glances. 

Black bedhead came into view, followed by a scowl and workout attire.

“Just take this.” A calloused hand slammed down a piece of paper in front of Oikawa.

“What is it, Tobio? A cute little drawing of us? You know I already have enough of those.”

Kageyama ignored him completely. “Eat what’s on there and do those exercises and you should gain about a kilo of muscle by the time we do the job. Eat whatever you want on top of that. You probably need fat more than anything. I’m going for a run.”

“Well, that was really nice of him, wasn’t it Tooru?” Suga grinned, watching Kageyama leave as inapproachably as he’d entered.

He wasn’t expecting Oikawa to be thrilled, but he also wasn’t expecting the look of absolute disgust splayed across his face. It was like the two of them made hating each other a full time job.

“Tobio thinks he’s so smart,” Oikawa muttered into his tea. But he didn’t protest when Suga took the recommendations to be certain he could cook the things that Kageyama, _a nutritionist and personal trainer_ , had suggested.

The second set of feet had gone quiet, and Bokuto slowly peered around the corner, his hair in a sloppy topknot.

“Hey hey hey!" he whisper-yelled which was nearly as loud as a normal person yelling. "Are you guys having like, a sexy genius meeting or something?”

“I’m no genius,” Oikawa put his hand on his chest in an effort to expand and personalize the compliment. Unfortunately, Bokuto didn’t pick up on the very obvious social cue as he crossed the room to the breakfast bar.

“Well, the silver fox has gotta be, he’s a surgeon ‘n all,” Suga knew this wasn’t about him, so he just grinned and accepted the compliment as the large man stood behind Akaashi, wrapping his arms around his waist. “And Keeiiiijiiii, of course…”

“I don’t even have a high school diploma, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto sat his head on his… husband’s? boyfriend’s? shoulder and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t argue with me. I’m your boss, remember?” He pulled away and said, “See ya everybody, I’m going for a run. You should check out my thighs when I get back if you want a jumpstart to your day!”

Another thing that Suga did not expect was for Akaashi to turn a very dark shade of red. But he absolutely did, nervously twiddling his fingers above his cup of tea. It was the most adorable thing Suga had seen in ages.

Oikawa, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to rip Akaashi’s face off with his bare hands.

 

_Karasuno Mansion_ _2:30pm_

 

"Where did you learn to do this, Asa-chan?" Oikawa asked as Asahi gently brushed his temples with green concealer. “Such a strange skill for a goth fashion model.”

Asahi took a deep breath as though he were going to speak and then just held it.

What a question.

He didn't know where to start. Because really, it was a story that began with the first drink he and Noya had shared together. A drink that had led to a twisted relationship between the three of them that had nearly destroyed Noya and Asahi both. Because you couldn't be intimate with Nishinoya Yuu without also being intimate with alcohol.

And by this point, Asahi and liquor were sworn enemies.

But Noya's struggles were too personal to share with... really with anyone, but especially the person who had hired them. Asahi didn’t want to be rude either. So he cut out the bits that had any real meaning. He’d always been terrible at small talk, and yet he’d had nothing but jobs where it was required. Either temporarily or permanently, he loomed in close proximity to strangers to change their appearance, and they expected him to keep them happy during the process.

"Well, uh, after I finished my apprenticeship, I was trying to make more money,” he chuckled, hoping it sounded friendly instead of nervous. “People don’t come to you until you build up a reputation. So I started working in the mornings at one of those salons that does uh… permanent makeup?"

He didn't mention that those eighteen hour days were to supplement the cost of inpatient rehab that Noya's family couldn't afford.

"Looking like that?" Oikawa laughed and craned his head. Asahi had to pull back his hands to keep from getting concealer in the silky brown strands of his hair. You’d think a guy like Oikawa would be familiar with makeup application, but apparently not. Which was even more impressive, in a way.

"Uh, no..." Asahi laughed as he switched over to a more neutral flesh tone to cover the green. "I didn't have many piercings, and nothing on my hands yet, so I just wore long sleeves. While I was there the owner insisted I learn how to do makeup as well. She, uh… wouldn't take no for an answer. Thanks to tattooing I understood how light and shading works on the body, so it wasn't too hard to learn how to do that on someone’s face."

And at that point, Noya had just left. Gone for thirty long days. The first week had been horrible. Screaming, begging, crying phone calls every night. The deep loneliness in his heart, having the apartment to himself. The guilt for letting everything end in such disaster. For sending the man he loved away at all. For not being able to break through addiction, even if it was someone else’s. It had been all his fault. He should have been better. He should have taken better care of him.

Anything that could take Asahi's mind off of the situation had been a blessing. He’d worked his hands to the bone drawing the most beautiful pieces, then tattooed them for free just to get the word out about his work. He’d poured himself into learning how to do makeup until he was better than anyone else in the salon.

His skill showed on Oikawa’s face. Not that it took much, the man was still objectively beautiful even when his skin had been put through the ringer. But Asahi had taken some liberties to try to bring back a bit of vitality to his face.

“Asa-chan,” his new boss/employee smiled widely, breathless, and so authentically happy that Asahi felt himself tearing up, “I look like _myself_.”

“Ah, yeah… I hope you don’t mind,” Asahi scratched his head, “I added a little contouring and a few highlights to make your cheeks look just a bit fuller. Normally I do the opposite, so it was kind of fun.”

“It looks _perfect_.”

“Ah, good,” he chuckled nervously. “I don’t know if you’re interested, but I could get you a chemical peel at my old salon. They owe me one. It should help with most of that scarring. It um… looks a bit rough for a week, but the results are nice. It’d fix up the whole reason you wanted a cover-up at all.”

“I’ll think about it, Asa-chan,” Oikawa turned in the desk chair that Noya had spun in until he puked last night. “Are you feeling any better about your interview next week? Makki and Mattsun said you three are practicing tonight?”

“We are. And uh…" he scratched the back of his head, "Noya says I should say I'm feeling good, because if I say it enough I’ll believe it.”

“He’s right," Oikawa sang in a low voice. He looked ready to leave for reasons that had nothing to do with present company.

Although Asahi hadn’t been directly told the reason for Oikawa’s request for makeup, he’d heard it from Yachi, who’d heard it from Hinata, who’d heard it from Tanaka, who’d heard it from Tsukishima, who’d heard it from Kuroo, who’d heard it from Bokuto, who’d been there. Presumably. And even though it seemed kind of private, Asahi had done something to help things along if necessary, and he figured Oikawa should probably know.

“Ah... I forgot to tell you. That foundation and concealer, they were primed and set, so they won’t come off if you get rained on… or uh…” he chuckled, “kiss somebody.”

 

_Karasuno Mansion 3pm_

 

The basement was a disaster waiting to happen. Kuroo was setting up what looked to be a makeshift chemistry lab and Akaashi was organizing his tools, some of which could easily kill a man. Most dangerous of all, Bokuto was bored and he was hovering, begging Kuroo to blow something up while they had the chance.

Oikawa sighed. “I can’t believe I’m asking you two this, but since you’re the only ones who seem to own hair products… can you make mine look like it does in this photo? I’m… out of practice, and I can't get anything to work.”

“Ohoho?”

“Ohohoho…”

The two men slowly approached him, fingers twitching.

“Maybe you should ask Hinata or Nishinoya, Oikawa-san,” Akaashi stopped them in their tracks. “Kuroo-san wakes up like that, and Bokuto-san has been known to use white glue for vertical lift.”

The grey haired maniac turned with a betrayed look on his face. “Akaaaaashi! That was one time, and it was an emergency! Why you gotta bring me down like that?”

“Perhaps you should remember this moment the next time you consider mocking my hair care routine, Bokuto-san.”

As it turned out, growing out his long curly hair had made Hinata a master of styling it, although they still couldn’t find a solution for Oikawa’s more permanent problem.

Well, his hair problem.

He had a lot of others.

 

 

_The Tokyo University Museum, 5pm_

 

For the second time in two weeks, Iwaizumi had sent his staff home early. Maybe he wouldn’t need to if they’d stop working through their lunches, but since they did, he’d sent them home at four.

He should have sent himself home too. He felt a deep weariness pressing on his shoulders. The recurring dream of a face he didn’t want to think about crumbling into dust on the pillow next to him had woken him up every night since their encounter in the park. Iwaizumi didn’t know where to begin processing the entire situation, he just knew it was the adult thing to do. But no matter how hard he tried, he ended up at the same place.

Unable to stop thinking about a man he was supposed to be done with. He hated him, and he… just didn’t.  

Wakatoshi wasn’t helping.

Iwaizumi was not the kind of guy who talked about his feelings. Ever. But the guilt at seeing _anyone_ emaciated and sick, not to mention someone who had been at his side for eighty percent of his life, was inescapable. It certainly didn’t help that their twenty-year relationship had ended in the prison admittance hall at Iwaizumi’s own insistence.

But ending it had been the only defense his fucking heart had had left. What should he have done? Waited five years for someone that he couldn’t write to or visit? Someone who had lied to him for _a year_? Someone who didn’t even…

There were three holes in the walls of his apartment that hadn’t been there before. Cuts in his knuckles that probably needed stitches.

He needed to talk about this stuff, and you’d think you could talk to your boyfriend about something this jarring. But no. The unrelentingly honest black-and-white thinking that had drawn Iwaizumi to Wakatoshi in the first place actually made discussing certain things an impossibility. One of these unapproachable topics was the complicated relationship that emerged when the person you’d been sure for most of your life was _it_ got out of prison.

“ _Best sever all ties. I encourage you to do whatever you have to do to move on.”_ Wakatoshi had said over their dinner the previous evening. His eyes had softened when he added “ _I dislike seeing you in pain. The better man will be the one you come back to_.”

Iwaizumi had furrowed his eyebrows, not sure how to respond to that piece of completely useless advice, or the sudden burst of sentiment that went with it. Wakatoshi was pathologically unable to talk about emotions. Even though he didn't mean to, he _always_ made it worse when Iwaizumi was truly upset; Iwaizumi didn’t know why he’d even asked.

“ _He’s saying you should bang him and get it out of your system, Hajime_ ,” the jarring voice of the casino manager had resonated behind him where he’d apparently been standing, having just returned from the bathroom. Iwaizumi hadn’t even known he’d been in the penthouse to begin with. If he had, he might have left. He was not, nor would he ever be, on a given name basis with Tendou Sartori. And he did not need a goddamn boyfriend translator.

Or… maybe he did? 

Being told by his boyfriend’s business manager that he should have therapy sex with his ex-convict ex had been a new, insane development. Especially the part where Wakatoshi had just grunted in vague agreement and permission. The situation should have made Iwaizumi deeply question the exact nature of the “business” relationship between the two of them. And maybe the nature of _his_ relationship with the person he was seeing. Because that seemed like cheating to him. Like cruelty. That wasn’t the way Iwaizumi did things.

But it hadn’t pushed him to say anything at the time. Or now.  

He’d wondered more than a few times why a man who Oikawa had spoken of with nothing but venom had decided to quietly pursue him over a period of _years_. Was it some kind of revenge? Iwaizumi had eventually come to the conclusion that it couldn’t be the last laugh in the face of years-long rivalry that it appeared to be. Wakatoshi had never even seen Oikawa as his rival; more like an unruly child that he hadn’t been able to control.

No, if Iwaizumi was going to view his relationship in the harshest way possible it was that Wakatoshi had been looking for an imposing, professionally accomplished gay man who also happened to ooze the kind of masculinity that was insistently (and idiotically) claimed by straight machismo. Not necessarily easy to find all three at once. Iwaizumi knew he fit the bill.

He didn’t think along those lines often, though. Only when he was annoyed. Like today. 

Either way, he wasn’t going to have sex with Oikawa because _what the actual fuck was wrong with them_?

Now the late afternoon sun filtered through the open wooden blinds and into his office. The light hit a tray of North American specimens that one of his staff had brought in for approval, setting off a wave of iridescent reflection. A monarch was included in this batch, its poisonous, vengeful orange shimmering in the sunlight. Iwaizumi idly wondered if humans worked in the same way as this butterfly, taking in corruption in small, manageable bites the way its caterpillar ate poisonous milkweed: glutted with it until their very essence was poison.

Just how much depravity had he swallowed in small, imperceptible doses? 

Movement in the exhibit room grabbed his attention and drew it away from grim considerations. The public space was closed for the day, but no one had bothered to lock up when they left. Now that he was the only one there, he’d have to kick out the confused, wandering tourists looking for the bathroom or the enthusiastic retired lepidopterists who’d want to talk his ear off for the rest of the evening. Usually he loved listening to excited old folks talk about butterflies, but today he couldn’t hear over the chaos in his own head.

He opened the heavy wooden door of his office and walked down the short hall to the low-light room full of glass-fronted exhibit cases made out of blonde wood. A slender, well-dressed man holding a leopard print purse was standing in front of the Queen Alexandra specimens, his hand hovering over the case and tracing the outline of a butterfly from a distance.

Iwaizumi knew those fingers.

“Exhibit’s closed,” he grunted.

Oikawa turned, and the face Iwaizumi saw underneath those same awful glasses was not the shattered face that he’d seen in the park. It was the confident, glowing face that had been burned into his eyelids twenty-five years ago. The only thing he’d seen on the long nights when his whole world ached with a longing that was shredded by razor sharp edges of pain. A face that haunted him.

A face he did not fucking trust.

“I didn’t forget how to read in the slammer, you know,” Oikawa continued to idly trace the butterfly, his long finger twirling hypnotically. Now that the taller man was facing him a bit more Iwaizumi could see that he was focused not on the colorful male but its subtle colored mate. The same muted browns that Iwaizumi himself favored.

“The door was unlocked so I came in. I am a criminal after all. In fact, I stole this purse on the way here.”

This was a power struggle. Everything with this asshole was on some level. Unfortunately for Oikawa, Iwaizumi had had a lifetime to build up a defense against his bullshit and he’d spent the past five years fortifying it. He looked closely at the slim black suit. It looked good, more than just good, but it was a bit too short in the arms and too tight in the shoulders. Borrowed from someone who’d been slim his whole life, as opposed to Oikawa, whose bones were too large for his body at the moment. His hair was stiffer than it used to be, and the even tone of his skin covered up two scars and the scattering of moles that Iwaizumi had memorized even before he realized you could fall in love with your best friend.

Oikawa was trying very hard to look like his old self for the only person in the world who would recognize the facade for what it was. The question was, did he even realize that Iwaizumi would know? Or had he just needed this for himself?

Either way seemed pathetic as hell. And Oikawa Tooru was a lot of awful things, but pathetic wasn’t on that list.

“Do you want your stuff, or do you want to stare at that case all day?"

 

 

Letting Oikawa into his office left a gaping weakness that Iwaizumi didn’t want. The invader's eyes fluttered from one corner of the room to another, considering his plants as though his decorative choices were deep windows into Iwaizumi's psyche and not just some fucking plants that he'd gotten as office-warming gifts.

The small amount of mess on his desk would be indicative of his stress level, or how much he’d been slacking, or whatever else the jackass wanted to assume about him. Iwaizumi was gnawing on the inside of his cheek, waiting to refute whatever bullshit was about to come up, when Oikawa sat down on the corner of his work surface and started pulling items out of the purse he'd stolen, regarding each with a critical eye.

"Is that really the kind of shit you do now? Purse snatching?"

"No," Oikawa popped open a bottle of expensive lotion and shuddered at the smell, "but this conceited snob wouldn't get up for a poor old lady who could barely stand. Don't worry, I slid her wallet and keys in her jacket pocket once I slipped the cash in the old lady’s bag. Oh, and I kept this hideous hundred-thousand yen purse as a souvenir."

Iwaizumi already felt like his blood vessels were going to burst.

"This is just a terrible color on anyone…” Oikawa ignored his obvious fury and tossed aside a tube of carroty lipstick, “but oh _look_! Someone was ready to get naughty!" He pulled out a vacuum-sealed bottle of lube and a strip of condoms and sat them in the middle of the desk. "The poor thing’s going to have to cancel her evening plans now, don't you think?" he grinned.

Iwaizumi had no time for this. He yanked open the top drawer and dug through the disorganized contents, pulling out a key.

“Here,” he chucked it at Oikawa, who caught it with an unnecessary whine. “The number to the storage unit and the name of the place is on the keychain. Now leave.”

Only he didn't.

Oikawa’s jocular mood evaporated into the mist it had always been. The sunny midafternoon light was cut off as the sun descended behind a tree. The office fell into darkness. And he still didn't move off the desk.

“I’m not finished with you yet, Iwaizumi,” he said softly, caressing the edge of menacing with the second half of the name.

Iwaizumi crossed his arms, muscles straining against his rolled up shirtsleeves.

“You honestly think you could stop me from leaving if I wanted to go?” he snorted. “Since there’s nothing in here for you to steal, I’ve got no problem with locking you in overnight.” 

He grabbed his jacket from his desk chair and his worn leather bag from where it leaned against the wall, sliding both over his shoulders without a glance at his unwanted guest. He could feel Oikawa's mouth gaping in shock without even seeing his face.

For the first time since he’d seen him in the park; no, since he was taken in for questioning six years ago, Iwaizumi felt in control of the situation.

"Can we please just talk?"

Oikawa's voice wasn't cold, but it was a thousand kilometers away.

Iwaizumi dropped his coat and bag on the floor and spun around.

"I don't have shit to say to you. But since you won't stop harassing me if you don't get your say, go ahead, spray me with your verbal diarrhea."

As soon as he said it Iwaizumi wished he hadn't. Too much. Oikawa was going to cry, leaving him in hell: the instinct to make his best friend stop and the learned defense of shutting him out of his world duking it out with each other.

But Oikawa wasn't crying. He was bent over on the desk, laughing hysterically.

"Iwa-chan," his eyes were wild and happy when he lifted them, "you've gotten quite sophisticated in how dirty-mouthed you are. I'm impressed!"

"Don't fucking call me that," Iwaizumi growled.

"Why not?" Oikawa taunted. "No matter what you want to believe about how I've changed, I'm still the person who gave you that nickname. I'm still the only person who could ever use it. It's still that name in _my voice_ that you hear in the back of your mind when you get yourself off, isn't it?"

Iwaizumi wanted to sweep all the trash on his desk to the floor and then fuck him there until neither of them could walk. And then…

"I know I hurt you," Oikawa's mocking tone fell away, leaving something raw and vulnerable. "But you have to understand that this black and white line you’ve drawn between good and bad? It doesn't exist. If it did, and I knew I had to stay on one side of it to keep you, I never would have moved. Never. I’m sorry–"

“You think that’s it?” Iwaizumi interrupted with a snarl, taking a step forward. “You goddamn idiot. You have no fucking idea what you did, Oikawa. You think the fact that you broke bad and robbed a fucking _hospital_ would be enough to break my fucking heart? I thought you knew me better than that.”  

“I obviously have no idea who you are, Iwai ** _zumi_** ,” Oikawa scoffed. “Because the person _I_ loved would never, ever abandon me. And you _did_.”

He wanted to break his own fingers against the wall.

“Do you remember,” his voice was a low, dangerous rumble, “when I was deciding whether or not I wanted a job in the field, you piece of shit?”

Oikawa seemed to be pulling together a lie. Because he didn’t.

“Of course you don’t," Iwaizumi snorted. "You were working yourself to death. I kept it to myself. To _protect_ you from one more thing on your shoulders. Going out into the field would have been amazing. But with your travel schedule, there was no way we’d have been able to see each other for more than a few weeks at a time if I did. I believed in _you_ , you piece of trash, and I believed in your fucking career, so I stayed.”

“Iwa…”

“You got hurt, it was a fucking mess and I was trying my damnedest to be there for you, finish school so I could support both of us. But you wouldn’t fucking _talk to me_. After you could walk again, you just kept going off, leaving while I was in class and not coming back until the next day. You weren’t going to practice, I knew that much. And god, what was I supposed to think? I’d see Kageyama’s name pop up on your phone and you’d leave. I thought for _certain_ you were fucking him.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I have better taste than that!”

Iwaizumi grabbed him by the lapels of his secondhand suit and slammed him against the rows of filing cabinets.

“And then, what do I find out? Something worse. You wanna talk about who abandoned who? What do you think about this? That after twenty years, the person I arranged my career, my whole damn life around, the person I’d been arranging my life around for _years_ , didn’t _fucking trust me enough to ask for my help_!”

“Iwa-chan, I–”

The annoying pet name drove him over the edge.  

_I encourage you to do whatever you have to do to move on._

“Shut the fuck up!” Iwaizumi growled, crushing their lips together.

Oikawa surged back, kissing him with five years of desperation. His lips were chapped beyond belief, but he still tasted faintly of bourbon; sweet, dark, and dangerous.

“Oh, you want me _now_?” Iwaizumi snarled as Oikawa kissed down his neck.

“I haven’t stopped for a single minute,” Oikawa’s breath hitched as Iwaizumi bit down hard on his earlobe. “But you’re the one who just kissed me.”

“It was to shut you up, you scumbag.”

“Then why are you still kissing me?" Oikawa breathed. "More to the point, why are you getting hard? You can shut me up with something else, you know.”

Iwaizumi closed his mind against the vision of Oikawa on his knees, chapped lips straining to take every last inch of his…

_I encourage you to do whatever you have to do to move on._

"Fine then," he pushed down on Oikawa's shoulder with one hand while opening his pants with another. " Is that all you're good for now?" 

Oikawa snarled at him, but grabbed the back of his thighs like he wanted to die that way.

Iwaizumi felt drunk. Any sensible thought was telling him to stop, to not do this, but Oikawa's eyes were making his heart ache and his mouth was making his cock twitch and maybe, really, this was what they both needed to move on.

And then Oikawa touched him, first with his tongue, and then with his lips, and then with the inferno of his mouth and Iwaizumi didn't care anymore. He grabbed him by hair coarse with hairspray and tilted his head until he couldn't do anything but look in his eyes. Smooth brown irises gazed at him, vulnerable, devoted. But he knew better than to trust them. Adjusting his hand he fucked into Oikawa’s mouth, knowing what was okay and what was too much by sheer muscle memory.

He pulled him off when he felt himself getting close, yanked Oikawa to his feet, and shoved him back against the cabinet. During the moment they were apart, Iwaizumi reached back to his desk and grabbed the stolen lube, flicking off the shrink wrap with his thumb.

Oikawa was ignoring everything he was doing, desperate to kiss every inch of him he could reach, trying to wedge his hands under his sweater vest in order to pull out his shirt.

Iwaizumi didn’t let him, instead pulling out the crisp white shirt from Oikawa’s trousers, then yanking off the belt so hard it broke, flipping open the clasp and zipper and pulling the pants down around his feet.

They still knew each other’s bodies as well as their own, and in no time at all Iwaizumi was pounding Oikawa against the wall, sheathed to the hilt. The slam of Oikawa’s back against the rattling cabinets belied the way their foreheads were touching. Iwaizumi couldn’t stop looking at his face, in his fucking eyes.

This was not how you hate-fucked someone. Not with their weakened arms clasped around your neck and your given name being kissed into your own damn mouth. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t a hate fuck when you bit the guy’s neck hard enough to draw blood to keep from telling him you loved him when you came.

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa whispered like a prayer. “Hajime… _please_ …”

  

 

“Are you going to tell your new boyfriend?” Of course he was smug, head lolling against his own shoulder, exposing an enormous bite at the junction of his neck. It had bled, and the flecks of blood were scattered across the collars of his shirt and jacket.

Someone else’s collars.

Iwaizumi’s skin felt like it was trying to forcibly separate itself from his body. This was supposed to get him closure. He wasn’t supposed to want to… cuddle. To want to have a serious talk to make things better. Not even better. The way they used to be. He wasn’t supposed to want to beg him to stay.

Oikawa was a liar. A _liar_ , he reminded himself.

 “He suggested I do this, actually,” Iwaizumi muttered, standing up, tucking in his shirt and then zipping his trousers.

“What?” Oikawa’s voice cracked. Iwaizumi could hear the scrambling of his cum-splattered shoes against the tile floor.

Iwaizumi turned around and crossed his arms. Oikawa’s eyes looked dead.

“That I get you out of my system,” Iwaizumi said, each word slicing his throat as he did so. “Now get out.”

For seconds, minutes, hours, nothing happened. Then, with a quiet dignity Iwaizumi had forgotten the man possessed, Oikawa pulled himself together, grabbed the stolen purse and storage key, and left.

He didn’t say a word as he went.

 

 

Spending the night on the floor of your goddamn office was not something Iwaizumi would recommend. But after drinking his stash of emergency bourbon until he was allowed to cry for a few moments, he could barely stand, let alone make it out the door.

His soul was soaked in poisonous, vengeful orange.

 

_Karasuno Mansion 8:10 pm_

 

“I’ve never done any crime before,” Kageyama overheard Yamaguchi say, “but is it normal for the… _mastermind_ to be this late?”

“You know about as much as I do,” Tsukishima sighed.

Though he was trying to hide it with a look of disgust, Kageyama was terrified. What if Oikawa had turned somehow? He’d definitely gone to see Iwaizumi, who, he’d learned from Hanamaki and Matsukawa’s ribald joking, was dating their _target_.

He inadvertently glanced at Shouyou, and started thinking of a way he could get him out of there if the police showed up. Unfortunately, he noticed. And for the first time in three years, Kageyama found the two of them face to face without a third party paying attention.

“What’s going on?” Shouyou looked at the ground instead of him. “Everyone’s really nervous, especially the people who’ve done this the most. Akaashi would have left with Bokuto like five minutes ago, if Kuroo hadn’t stopped them.”

“I don’t know”, Kageyama leaned down so that he could speak softly but looked at the far wall instead of the person he was talking to. Their shoulders were touching very lightly.

“If anything happens, I want you to–”

Shouyou shoved his shoulder away, “Don’t _tell me_ what to do, Tobio, you _always_ …”

The slamming of the front door stopped him from finishing. But Kageyama still felt like he’d been punched in the kidney.

 _Tobio_.

“Yo~hoo, everyone!” Echoed from the entrance.

“Thanks for coming!” Hanamaki called brightly.

“Your punctuality sure makes us feel confident in this whole enterprise,” Matsukawa added.

Akaashi twirled his pointer fingers around each other.

Then Oikawa stepped into the common area pulling a handcart full of enormous plastic containers behind him. He was wearing one of his old suits, a serge blue that had been tight before but fit him perfectly now. Kageyama’s shoes were nowhere to be found.

“Tobio-chan,” Oikawa said with breezy authority, “in one of these boxes are about thirty pairs of shoes. Since I destroyed yours, you can pick three. Alternatively, I will buy you as many shoes as you want when this is over.”

He turned to Akaashi, “Handsome-kun, you… _don’t_ want that suit back. You can pick four of the ones I currently have, and I will have them fitted and altered for you within the next two days. I’ll also buy you a new one when this is all over. Kou-chan can pick it out himself.”

He stomped to the front of the room, and Kageyama realized his glasses had changed to something much less plastic and much more flattering. He was walking straighter, his chin was higher, and overall he seemed to be trembling a lot less.

When he made it to the front of the room, he leaned against the back of a chair while everyone waited expectantly.

“I learned a very important lesson today,” he began softly.

“It clearly wasn’t how to brush your hair,” Hanamaki called.

Oikawa took a deep breath. Everyone who knew better took a step back. Including Hanamaki, whose husband put his arm on his shoulder in a subconscious protective gesture.

“No,” Oikawa’s smile was leaning towards the scary side of unhinged. “I suppose I’ll have to figure that out later.”

No one said anything. But Suga started to smile.

“I discovered that we have no option but to _ransack_ Shiratorizawa Hotel and Casino,” Oikawa chuckled. Then there was a slight turn to his voice. “For some strange reason, I thought maybe we could go easy on them. But no. That was a silly notion. What I want you to understand, more than anything else, is that if in the process of this enterprise you can fuck things up just a little more than expected, I want you to do so. Ravage them.”

Yamaguchi nervously raised his hand which was, in Kageyama’s opinion, rather impressively gutsy, “Why is that, Oikawa-san?”

Oikawa blinked, and his lips rolled back in a feral grin.

“An excellent question, Freckles-kun. There was a motto I had, once upon a time. I think prison tried to grind it out of me. But I met with an old friend today and he, with his usual tough love, _ground_ it back in.”

There was a long pause, the kind that Kageyama knew Oikawa lived for. But he didn’t have the sense to interrupt it because he was just as riveted as everyone else. Sauntering over to Yamaguchi, Oikawa crouched down, and put his face terrifyingly close to the freckled young man.

His voice was low, but it resonated throughout the room.

“If you’re going to hit it, hit it till it _breaks_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what the fuck are you thinking iwa-chan how the hell am i supposed to resolve this everyone's going to be furious 
> 
> deus ex lubricant
> 
> KENMA IS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER KIDS.


	9. Stray Kitten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter directly reveals (rather than the hints at) a character to be a survivor of sexual assault. It does not depict actual sexual assault in any way, fetishize it, or even give the rapist a name. It simply addresses the day to day challenges of living long after such an experience. I have worked hard to make this about the survivor, and don't think it will be triggering, but triggers do what they want, so if you want to avoid this altogether, skip the first section completely.

**“ _The door to the vault is six inches of solid steel,” Kageyama announced. “There’s state-of-the-art seismic monitoring throughout the building; you can't use explosives. You've got to melt through that door without injuring anyone or collapsing the room."_**

**_"Tetsu-chan,” the new-and-improved Oikawa grinned, “you said you had to rob your old lab to get what you need. You have access to whatever and whoever is necessary to do so, so best get robbing!"_ **

****

_2 nd Floor Communal Bath, Karasuno Mansion, 10pm_

“But I never get to do _anything_ because I’m always driving the getaway car!” Bokuto sunk down into the bath as he sulked, his hair blending into the blue and grey tiles.

“Bo,” Kuroo rolled his eyes. “You're a professional driver. Literally the best at driving out of any of us on this job. Actually, anyone in the country. In fact, on this side of the continent, only those Chinese twins and that Malaysian lady are better. We want you to drive because you kick ass at it.”

Bokuto surged out of the water. "Yeah, but this isn’t like, _real_ driving. It's boring! No one ever chases you, you never go fast: anybody could do it! Suga and Daichi know how. Why can't they drive? Then I'll help you! You need another strong guy to roll out those barrels, I know you do!"

Kuroo put his head in his hands. He should have expected this. There was no reason he shouldn't have expected it. Bokuto had been asking him to take him on jobs for years. As though the guy didn't already have his hands full climbing the Formula racing ladder, winning underground street races, and running a ring of luxury car theft to fund both the legal and illegal sides of his racing career.

In fact, Bokuto had done more in his stumbling crash into a life of crime than anyone on this job but his own partner. But he was never, ever satisfied. 

And that was all well and good. That kind of drive was respectable, even. But there was a certain skillset necessary for breaking and entering and it involved subtlety. Kuroo was pretty certain his best friend couldn't be quiet enough to steal a straw from a packed airport McDonald's.

"I'll drive," Akaashi announced unexpectedly, looking up from the book on helicopters he was reading. In the communal bath. Kuroo had no idea how he didn't get the pages wet, and it was sort of a faux pas, but apparently reading while he was bathing was Akaashi's favorite thing in the world. In the rare cases where the guy broke social convention, well… you just let him.

“Are you _sure_?” Kuroo pleaded while Bokuto jumped out of the bath and danced around the room, naked and victorious.

Akaashi turned his page. “He’s going to want to try something new. It might as well be under your supervision in a low-stakes environment. You already mentioned it was going to be an easy job. Or was that a lie to soothe Yachi-san?” 

“It wasn’t a lie but- _Come on!_ Bo get that out of my face.”

“You seem real nervous, Kuroo,” Bokuto put his hands on his hips and _shimmied_. “Something on your mind?”

“Right now? Your unnerving, flaccid penis,” Kuroo growled.

Bokuto crouched down, his arms and head resting on the edge of the bath, “It’s gotta be something other than my junk. Cause limp dicks are _funny_ , as you well know.”

“Yeah,” Kuroo acknowledged begrudgingly, “they’re fucking hilarious.” 

“Tell us what’s wrong then,” Akaashi turned another page, just completely ignoring the parts of the conversation that he found distasteful.

Kuroo pushed himself up and sat on the cold tile edge, his feet still in the hot water. “I don’t exactly love going back to my old lab, alright? After what went down...”

Bokuto stood up and slid back into the water next to him. He was starting to panic. “Wait, it was in the lab? Dude I didn’t know! I would have said something if I–”

“Nah man, he just worked in the building. It’s okay.”

Kuroo was so used to comforting people over the worst thing that had ever happened to _him_ that the fact that he had to do so didn’t even phase him anymore. Plus, he knew Bokuto didn’t mean it like that. No one ever did really, but for Bokuto that counted more than most.

“How would you prefer we continue this conversation?” Akaashi asked, unsurprisingly but refreshingly blunt.

“Or, you don’t gotta talk at all. I can try to dunk Keiji and see how long it goes until he gets really pissed.”

“Mmm you can try…” Akaashi hummed menacingly.

“Not even sure why I’m feeling like this,” Kuroo answered Akaashi’s question the only way he knew how. “No one who’d recognize me would know about it anyway.”

He yanked on his wet hair, trying to get it back in front of his eyes so he didn't feel so exposed. “It’s not like I could have reported anything. I mean, I'd been drinking. Went out on a fucking date with the asshole, for god’s sake. And look at me! I’m an enormous, shady-looking guy. Bigger than he was, even. Cops would’ve laughed in my face if I came to them.”

Bokuto looked furious. He was obviously ready to say something vengeful and angry, as though he had any control over what had happened. After a quick glance at Akaashi he changed his mind.

“Bro, you know it wasn’t your fault. Not one of those things makes it your fault. Cops are assholes: if it weren't for them, Keiji and I’d be married by now.”

"Our legal concerns over your excessive parking tickets have no place in this conversation, Koutarou."

"Ah, yeah. Sorry bro. But you know what I mean!"

“Would you like us to go in your place?” Akaashi sat his book as far away from the water as possible and moved to sit on Kuroo’s other side. “I feel confident that Yachi, Hinata, Koutarou, and I could follow your instructions, perhaps with Kageyama’s help. Tsukishima could use the opportunity to set up a test communication relay.”

“No, Akaashi,” Kuroo grit his teeth, trying not to be infuriated by the well-intentioned, practical compassion. “It’s that I don’t _want_ to have a **fucking issue** with going back. I don’t want to feel like this after six goddamn years.”

“It’s okay to have feelings, Kuroo,” Bokuto said earnestly. “I should know. I have like four thousand a day.”

“Koutarou, how is that even remotely helpful?” Akaashi’s unflappability was being pushed to the limit.

“Because he’s been waiting a decade to throw it back in my face,” Kuroo shook his head, laughing despite himself. “Anyway, the guy isn’t even there anymore. He’s in Germany now, with some fancy ass job while here I am working as a thief cause I couldn’t stand to see him every day.”

“But it’s a job you like!” Bokuto reminded him. "A lot more than you liked chemical engineering."

“A job that seems to require an infinite amount of creativity and innovation.”

“Also you’re gonna make a billion yen which I bet that dickwad doesn’t have.”

“And then you could potentially rob him as well. Koutarou and I will gladly assist you.”

Kuroo slid back down into the bath, splashing both of them in the face.

They didn’t… get it, but that was okay. He wasn't really certain he got it either. But this? This was something too.

“Just come with me tomorrow, alright? That’ll be plenty.”

 

_Job Prep Day 1: Karasuno Mansion, 6pm_

Bokuto was fucking pumped as he paced his room, checking his pockets for the last time.

Phone? Check. Three big pink pills and four tiny rose ones? Check. Protein bar? Check. Water? Check. Luckily he was supposed to dress like a destitute chemistry grad student, so he could wear a pair of Matsukawa's old cargo pants. Otherwise he wouldn’t be able to carry all this stuff.

His hair looked a mess, though. Asahi had sprayed it with some kind of temporary black dye, and it was tied up in a topknot so that no one would recognize him. Colored his eyebrows black too. They felt thick and sticky against his face. He even had tinted glasses to make the striking gold of his eyes seem brown. But that was the point of everything, to look normal. Something he’d otherwise have avoided at all costs.

Did he have the right shoes? A knife? Did he have the medical ID thing so people didn't give him aspirin or skip his meds if he got taken to the hospital?

Yeah he did.

This was awesome it was so awesome it was so _awesome_.

Well.

Actually less awesome because he hadn't realized that this lab had such fucked up memories for Kuroo even though he probably should have since he’d quit after all of it had gone down. But even knowing that Bokuto was still pretty excited about the whole concept of what they were going to do and did that make him a bad person? A bad friend? Probably, he really was kind of a bad person when it came down to it most of the time. Well, no, he was pretty accomplished but that meant he should know better than to mess up something like that when it came to his best friend and–

" _Koutarou_."

Keiji's voice cut through the flight of thoughts in his head. He was standing in the doorway wearing black like he usually did for a job, shirt tucked and belt tight across his slim hips. Bokuto didn't understand how you could go for ten years only wanting one person, and still want him so so bad, but he did, maybe because Keiji was a miracle person.

"Have you eaten?" he asked. "We'll have to leave before Suga serves dinner."

Bokuto's shoulders slumped. He hadn't even thought of that; he’d been too busy getting things together...

Keiji took three steps across the room and held up a bag of some kind of takeout. It smelled like meat.

"I brought burgers," he smiled gently, trying to be encouraging. And maybe ten years ago that would have worked. Ten years ago when Keiji was still fresh and new in his life and the idea that someone so beautiful could love someone like Bokuto made his heart pretty much burst every time he thought about it. But he’d had ten years to get used to the feeling. And for all his idiocy, Bokuto Koutarou was skilled at quite a lot, including this: he was just a hair better at feeling bad about himself than Akaashi Keiji was at cheering him up.

He'd talked about all this with his therapist. Not just one but hundreds of conversations: adapting to stress, the positive kind, the negative kind, self-soothing, routine-management. How it was okay to make mistakes along the way to stability. How he was okay, he wasn’t some kind of maniac.

Skipping dinner once wasn’t the end of the world.

But it wasn't okay. Bokuto couldn't be super lazy or crazy excited or not eat or sleep like a normal person because under the right kind of unpredictable circumstances he'd go nuts again, destroying their lives.

He'd almost killed Keiji once. That could never, ever happen again. He had to stay even. And since he was an excitable person to begin with, chilling out required lots of work every single day.

Keiji could relax him more than anyone. He was like sliding into a comfy chair at the close of a long day, standing by the edge of the ocean at the apex of a road trip, the low rumble of 750 horsepower right before the flag dropped. But even Keiji couldn't stop the turbines in Bokuto’s brain once they started to whirl. And the two of them had been together long enough to figure out how unhealthy it was for either of them to expect him to. Only medication and a steady routine could do that. A steady routine that Bokuto had to _keep_. A single day of meal-skipping, sleep-avoiding, unfettered hype and he'd already fucked up. He had to take care of himself every day. No exceptions.

"Koutarou," Keiji sat down next to him on the bed. "I could feel you beating yourself up from the hallway. It's a very one-sided fight."

"Well, I oughta," Bokuto curled in his legs, feeling Keiji wrap his arms around him almost immediately. "I fucked up. Forgot all about Kuroo’s stuff. Didn't remember to eat, could hardly sleep last night..."

Keiji burrowed into his neck, his soft curls tickling Bokuto’s ear. He breathed slow and steady, and Bokuto did too. He wanted to talk more, to admit how much he’d ruined things, but he forced himself quiet until their breathing was completely in sync and his brain felt more like it belonged to him.

"And I punched one of your old friends in the face in front of the entire team because a very pitiable person was unaware of how insulting he’d been," Keiji confessed with a soft chuckle. "Mistakes were made, my love."

Bokuto felt a warm tingly feeling rush up his spine at the last two words. The pleasant sensation hovered over the back of his neck, sending tiny jolts of electricity across his scalp. "If you're tryin' to get me to relax, that's not the way to do it," he muttered gruffly. "Anyways you're only calling me that cause I'm upset."  

Keiji pulled back, mildly annoyed, "Have I ever said anything untrue about my feelings for you just to get you to calm down?" 

"No, but," now Bokuto felt even worse, "you just don't usually _say_ sweet stuff so much as..."

Instead of his breath, Keiji's soft lips pressed against his neck. "I think them often. But it’s... difficult for me to verbalize.” He paused for a long breath. “Yesterday evening when I should have said the most, I wasn’t able to."

Bokuto nuzzled into Keiji's dark hair, "Kuroo knows you pretty good. I don't think he's hurt or anything."

He pulled back and looked at him with dark eyes, running his cold fingers across Bokuto's collarbone. "So what you're saying is that it’s acceptable to fall short of one's expectations on occasion?"

"Of course," Bokuto ruffled his hair, "you don't gotta be perfect all the time, beautiful."

Blinking rapidly, Keiji's features drew into a wily smile.

"Then take your own advice, Koutarou. Now can we eat these burgers? They're going to be far too cold by the time I get to my fourth."

 

_Karasuno Mansion Basement, 7pm_

"Shouyou, are you _sure_ science dudes look like that?" Nishinoya asked while they were loading the van. It was pretty clear why he was asking. Hinata looked like a hot mess. No, actually just a mess. And it wasn’t like he wasn’t representing a certain segment of the scientist population, but someone had to defend the great halls of Science in general.

Kuroo popped his head out the back of the van, the hero Science deserved but not necessarily the one it needed. “Definitely not. I’m a scientist, and I’m a sexy specimen.”

“Well, I’m not gonna argue that, Tetsurousan, but you’re also a thief, and everyone knows we’re hot as hell.”

“Damn right,” Tanaka called out from somewhere nearby. “You’re an outlier, Kuroo-san” he added, unexpectedly familiar with statistical analysis.

You think you know a guy…

Hinata was sitting down by the edge of the van’s open doors, kicking his feet. His hair had been straightened and then, for lack of a better term, _oiled,_ leaving the orange curls as decidedly saggy and unwashed waves. His ponytail was tied at his neck instead of further up and the strands hung unflatteringly down his back.

“The point of it isn’t so much that all science guys look like this,” he scratched his head. “But some of them do and people kinda think they’re embarrassing losers. And since people are generally jerks, if they think a guy’s a loser they don’t look at him too long…”

“You made that up,” Kageyama growled, heaving a huge dolly cart over Hinata’s head without a single sign of effort.

“It’s not made up! It’s intuition, that’s different. Anyway, it always works, Bakayama!”

The two of them were sneering at each other, faces in close proximity while Kageyama held up the dolly so Nishinoya could secure it on the inside.

“Hey now, no getting it on while we’re on a job you two,” Kuroo smirked, assuming mockery would diffuse the situation.

“We’re not!” they protested simultaneously, scrubbing at the red that bloomed on their faces.

“Tetsurousan,” Nishinoya chuckled, somehow having gotten on the roof once his job was done, “it’s cool ‘n all if that’s your rule, but you probably need to talk to Koutarousan and Keijisan about it, seeing as they’re making out on the hood.”

“I can’t help how hot I look with these glasses on!” Bokuto called out. “Keiji’s only a man, after a–” He was cut off with a thud that made the entire vehicle shudder.

Tanaka turned the corner, shaking his head, “Always the quiet ones. Wow. Might be just a little bit gay after seeing that.”

“Ryuu, you’ve always been a little bit gay.”

“Yeah, but not enough, you know? Just not enough.”

“I’m well aware, buddy.”

“Alright!” Kuroo called, realizing that the portents for this job were not looking great and they should go before something actually went wrong. “We’re loaded up. Let’s head out.”

“Actually Kuroo, it’s necessary that we stop to fuel the vehicle,” Akaashi called from the front.

“Don’t get hurt, dumbass,” Kageyama muttered in Hinata’s general direction.

Hinata slid off of the van and got in his face. “ _You’re_ the one who’s getting hurt if you don’t stop telling me what to do!”

“Um… Kuroo-kun. Are we going to have to ride in this van without seatbelts? Or… seats?”

“Don’t worry Yacchan, you can sit in my lap!”

“She’ll sit in the front where there’s a seat, Bokuto-san.”

Yeah. This was gonna go greaaaat. 

 

_Ishihara Lab, Waseda University, 8pm_

If you wanted a pocket picked, Hinata Shouyou was your guy.

And Kuroo did in fact want such a thing. So Hinata was.

The door to the lab only let people in and out with a card swipe after hours: a lock that was very challenging for Yachi to crack in the middle of a well-trafficked area. So the first hurdle was to get a card and get in. More importantly, keep it so they could get out.

Easier said than done, really. Most students, paranoid to lose their IDs, immediately put them back in their pockets or bags as soon as they exited the door. So not only did you have to steal something from someone who had used it mere seconds prior, you had to pull it out of a place where it had been deeply secured.

It was a challenging task; one that Kuroo could not pull off himself.

“Okay,” he said in a conversational tone. He was sitting with Yachi and Bokuto on a bench immediately adjacent to the entrance, dolly at their side. The three of them were pretending to be friends having a conversation, instead of associates intensely watching the short greasy guy who was ostensibly playing a game on his phone. “The point of all this is redirection. We need to look like we belong, and we need to make people not want to look at us. So, Hinata and I may at some point push you against a wall, kiss you, shove you away, yell in your face, or any combination of those kinds of things as to provide a distraction. Is that okay? Trust me, there’s no meaning behind it.”

“You know I’ve done this before, Kuroo-kun,” Yachi smiled and patted his hand. “I understand how it works.”

“S’not like I haven’t kissed you before,” Bokuto rolled his eyes. “Although,” he stroked his chin, “we’ve never fought.”

Kuroo snorted, “It won’t be a real fight anyway. Also I’d kick your ass if we _really_ fought.”

Bokuto was about to argue, but Yachi’s whispered, “He’s doing it!” interrupted their speculation.

Despite the urgency they all stood casually, as though their conversation had come to its natural end. It was hard not to blatantly watch as Hinata lazily hooked his finger through the lanyard hanging out of someone’s pocket. The simple momentum of the student’s steps allowed Hinata’s grip on the lanyard to gently draw out a grad student ID card. With a relaxed pivot against the wall, he slid the card through the reader and walked through the door. Kuroo, Yachi, and Bokuto followed as though he was just a random stranger doing them a solid.

"Remember, act like you belong here," he whispered to Bokuto, who didn't seem to know how to push a dolly and look normal at the same time. Of course, normal for Bokuto was high-octane lunacy; so comparatively speaking he wasn’t acting that weirdly at all.

"Excuse me," Yachi was already speaking with the student worker at the entrance desk. The blue haired kid she was talking to couldn't see, but behind her back her hands were clasped tight in an effort not to shake. "We're here to pick up two barrels of S5680d for the Asano Lab. They're expecting us, but can you tell me how to find room 347?"

The kid yawned and gave useless directions to which Yachi nodded and listened willingly until it started to become obvious that he was less trying to help and more trying to work up the courage to ask her out. And there was something about him that made Kuroo feel sick to his stomach. Maybe it was the double septum piercing (which had pretty much been ruined forever for him), maybe it was the way he did his hair. Maybe it was just the building altogether, but he had to get Yachi away from that kid fast.

He was just about to intervene, doing god only knew what, his head was clouded and dizzy, when he felt the handle of the dolly shoved into his hands. Bokuto strode across the tiles, steps loud even in a pair of Converse.

"Hey hey hey, babe," he put his head on Yachi's and most of his impressive arm on the counter. "Ready to go get this stupid shit so we can go back to the apartment?” The last part of his statement was punctuated with a wink, which from someone with such enormous eyes and ludicrous eyebrows was more of a slap than anything.

He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, then looked up as though seeing the worker for the first time.

“Sup, dude?"

The most dismissive afterthought imaginable. A crushing blow. In the twelve years Kuroo had known Bokuto Koutarou, this was the sickest move he’d ever seen him pull. And he was so pissed that the dumbass had done it _now_ instead of at any other point in their lives where Kuroo could have actually, you know, cheered him on. 

Yachi smiled and tipped her head against Bokuto’s cheek. The size difference was hilarious enough to keep Kuroo from strangling Bokuto right then and there for doing something on a job Kuroo was running without telling him. What if they’d both gone up, pretending to be her boyfriend? Sure that was fine with _him_ but to most people the concept of two burly boyfriends and their tiny little girlfriend would not have been convincing.

"Thank you, Bokuto-kun," Yachi sighed with relief as they rounded the corner on their way to the service elevator, code in hand. "I forget how bad I am at getting people to leave me alone without Kiyoko around. Or um… knocking them out."

Bokuto grinned, self-importance so thick people could probably smell it, "Yeah, well, when you've got a super gorgeous boyfriend you learn a thing or two about staking a claim."

"Akaashi can take care of himself, bro,” Kuroo scoffed, still sort of annoyed. More at himself than anything. He should have figured out what was going on with that guy ages before Bokuto did. And why did it take him so long to do anything? The idea that the lab was fucking him up had replaced the chill that he prided himself on with a sort of general irritation at the world. And for some reason it made Bokuto really hard to deal with in a way that had never happened before.

His best friend looked at him over his shoulder, the yellow tinted glasses looking as ridiculous as they had when he put them on. "Sure he can, but that doesn't mean I don't like doing it."

Kuroo cackled to himself as quietly as it was possible to cackle. It was pretty hard to stay annoyed with such a delightful fucking ass.

 

 

“There’s four people in the labs on the right side of the door, five in the other” Hinata leaned against the handle of the dolly like he was having a casual chat about the weather. “I told them we were taking some S5680d to renature some junk so we could run it through the brass prectrometer like you said, Kuroo.”

He’d tried, bless him. He’d tried.

“Actually,” the shrimp continued, “I think most of them were high and the others had headphones in. Nobody has the code for this lock anyway. I said I was gonna get the night manager, but I think it’d be better if Yachan just opened it. I know that jerkface sent all those emails so we look legit, but still…”

“You should have more faith in poor Tsukki, short stuff. Also, high? In my day, you went to prison for half a decade for smoking up. These kids don’t know how good they got it,” Kuroo leaned against one side of the doorframe, pulling Bokuto across from him, as Yachi knelt between them. The hallway was empty, but with nine people in the general vicinity (not to mention anyone coming up the stairs at any time), he had no idea how long their privacy would last. They had to get in as fast as they could.

Cause that was the rule, really. Once you got to it, you could walk anything out of anywhere as long as you looked like you were supposed to have it.

Bokuto raised an eyebrow and tipped his head down towards Yachi, who was on her knees, already sprinkling the keypad with some kind of loose powder, completely focused.

“Bro, this kinda situation doesn’t seem like something that people are just gonna… not look at.”  

“It’s fine, you can’t even see her cause you guys are so big,” Hinata bounced away. He ran back and added, “I’m gonna make sure the exit’s clear and let Akaashi-san know we’re coming soon. Man, this whole job has been like _whoosh_. Smoothest one ever! Wait till that jerk sees!”

Kuroo knocked his hand lightly against the wood of the door. Hinata’s positivity was going to turn him into a straight-up superstitious guy.

“So.” Bokuto leaned his head against the wall, “How do we make this not look weird? Marriage equality or not, I feel like two dudes making out in a hallway isn’t the kind of PDA people just block out. I’m pretty certain, having made out in several public hallways with a distractingly hot man.”

Making the soppiest face he could pull together, Kuroo reached his hand across and cupped Bokuto’s face, effectively making them even more difficult to identify, “An intimate conversation is something nobody wants to see, but a bit less memorable than smokin hot dudes going at it.” His fingers coasted across a series of raised bumps where jaw met ear. “Man, I thought this stuff went away? Feels like it hurts.”

“Oh, that shit? Not going away ever, bro. It’s just from the meds. And yeah, it kinda does, but it’s better than the alternative. Least it’s not on my neck this time. Speaking of which,” he reached into his pockets, trying hard not to move or jostle Yachi, “gotta take this now.”

Kuroo really had no problems with someone drinking a beverage directly in his face. But sloppily eating a snack was another thing entirely.

“Can you chew with your mouth closed, man? I don’t like that flavor to begin with, don’t wanna eat it like a baby bird out of your damn mouth.”

“What if we were starving and it was the only way to survive?” Bokuto’s words were hard to understand because he was chewing with his mouth open even wider.

“That would never be the only way! We’d just split the thing in half! Chew in our _own_ mouths.”

Bokuto lifted an eyebrow. “But, just what if it was?”

“Would Akaashi do that?” Kuroo fired back. “If some evil maniac was like, ‘Eat out of your boyfriend’s mouth–’”

“Husband’s!”

“You’re not married, Bo.”

“Yeah,” Bokuto tipped his head against the wall, “but since this is an imaginary scenario, let’s pretend we are.”

Kuroo sighed, “Okay, so the maniac’s like, ‘Akaashi Keiji–’”

“Nope. Bokuto Keiji.”

“You really think he’s gonna take your name?”

“Yeah, cause my family doesn’t suck and also Japan says we gotta have the same one. Now continue.”

“So this beleaguered evil maniac who is about to give up on his villain career because you are so fucking annoying says, ‘ _Bokuto_ Keiji, if you don’t eat this gross ass protein bar that your _husband_ has been chewing on, I’m going to kill him.’ What would he do?”

“Say no,” Bokuto shrugged.

“But you’re insisting _I_ hypothetically do it?”

“ _He’d_ figure out another way to save my life.”

“Got it!” Yachi choked out, turning the doorknob and crawling back so she could stand. Her face was red, and it looked like she was desperately trying not to laugh.

Kuroo put his hand on the door, pushing it open as he flicked the switch to turn on the lights, “So what you’re saying is, _Akaashi_ Keiji, the man who is driving the getaway car so his theoretical future husband can steal some government regulated chemicals, would rather–” The lights came on, and Kuroo abruptly found himself with nothing to say.

“Oh dear,” Yachi gulped.

Sitting against the wall was a delicate man with terribly dyed hair and huge almond eyes. His inarguably lovely face was illuminated by the light of the video game he was playing. It wasn’t until the sound of his character dying echoed tinny across the room that he looked up at them.

“Oh. You’re not the police, then,” he sighed.

If Kuroo had to be fucked over by a voice, he was glad it was one that sounded so nice. Because he was fucked. Wholly and truly.

This lab was the worst. 

 

 

Kozume Kenma was not having a great day. First, his advisor had accused him of stealing government secrets. He hadn’t been wrong, necessarily, but Kenma had more or less written those secrets himself. Plus he had been as desperate as he had ever gotten, seeing as the man was basically holding him hostage for his labor instead of letting him finish his research and graduate. Kenma had tried to move forward on his own, attempting an extremely unusual transfer to another university simply to complete his doctoral defense.

Unfortunately, his highly reactive solvent research was classified as a government secret. A secret Kenma had unwittingly shared in his application process. Only when his advisor found out that he was planning to leave did Kenma realize what he’d done. 

After that he’d been locked in a closet to wait until the national agents came to address his _treason charges_. Their response was pretty lackadaisical: he’d been in there for hours, so clearly the government didn’t care that much. The closet was fitted with a motion sensing light, leaving him in the dark unless he waved his arm every five minutes. And since he rarely felt like moving under the best of circumstances, he’d sat in the dark for quite some time.

Now he was sitting in the back of a van, his legs dangling off the edge, as his kidnappers argued with each other by the lab’s secluded loading dock. There were five of them altogether:  two harmless, two crazy, and one who would probably kill a man if he found the motivation. At least it seemed like that now.

Things could always change.

“You can’t fucking _take_ people without their goddamn permission!” the first crazy one was shouting. He was tall and lanky with dark hair that hung over his feral cat eyes in a way that suggested it wasn’t his normal hairstyle. His face was red and a vein stood out on his forehead. He seemed very uncomfortable with his own anger.

The object of his rage was a man just a few centimeters shorter, but much broader. He had poorly-dyed hair and bizarre glasses that didn’t seem right on his face. Glasses was trembling like he was the sort of person who got worked up a lot, but was trying to hold himself back. It was probably good for Cat Eyes since the shorter man looked like the villain in the shitty game Kenma had beaten while he was locked in the storage closet: a character who could tear a man in half with his bare hands.

“Think I don’t know that?” Glasses spat, clenching and unclenching his fists. His voice was lower, like the growl of a cornered animal. Whatever was going on here, he felt the most threatened out of anyone. “It’s not like I _wanted_ to do it, but that guy _heard his name_ , and he’s not going back to prison! I don’t give a damn what I gotta do; it’s never gonna happen. Not to you either!”

This was deeply and immediately exhausting. Kenma wanted to melt into the floor of the van.

And also pee. He really had to do that.

He was absolutely never taking any sort of initiative again, even to get out of a terrible situation. This is where it got you. Wanted for treason and also abducted. Although these people had either rescued him or made things infinitely worse. It was difficult to say.

The man standing between them and the van, the one with good looks and even better posture, flinched involuntarily when Glasses brought up prison. _Akaashi Keiji_. That was the name, the one that had kept Kenma from getting knocked unconscious and left for the agents to find. Akaashi Keiji had been the reason Kenma was shoved in a barrel and dumped out into a van instead. And the flinch that the man who was unquestionably Akaashi Keiji made was a tiny gesture that no one else noticed.

But noticing was more or less Kenma’s thing. 

The two big guys were shoving each other after that, and calling each other vulgar names that weren’t remotely clever. Glasses was stronger but Cat Eyes had better moves. Really, either of them could have won if they wanted to, but neither did. The way Glasses was shaking had only gotten worse, and he was pretty sure Cat Eyes was blinking back tears.

Kenma would honestly feel sympathetic if they hadn’t kidnapped him a few minutes ago.

“Do they fight like this a lot?” the guy on his right asked no one in particular. He was strange in that he had purposefully made his long hair look terrible. But he smiled a lot, and that was kind of nice. For reasons he didn’t quite understand himself, Kenma found himself answering.

“No. They don’t, I don’t think.”

Akaashi Keiji pivoted his head like a bird about to strike its prey. Kenma was fixed with the most dangerous stare he’d ever experienced. He lowered his head and hid behind the curtains of his hair. Internally he was fuming rather than terrified. A single sentence and this man already knew too much about him. 

“He’s right,” the delicate woman next to him replied, her tone much more frantic than her words. “They just said a few minutes ago that they’d never fought before. And they’ve been best friends for over a decade, I think. So this has to be… _oh_.”

Because his head was down, Kenma heard that first punch rather than saw it. When he looked up, Cat Eyes was bleeding from the nose, and Glasses wasn’t Glasses anymore because they’d been tossed (or punched) away. His eyes were enormous and golden like an owl (such strange people). At least one of them was. The other was rapidly swelling shut.

Akaashi Keiji was talking to himself while he walked in tight circles, his fingers fumbling over themselves as he held his hands behind his back. Then he made a sharp 180 turn and stiffly returned to the back of the van. A small adjustment to his ear indicated a communications device instead of pure insanity.

He nodded to the woman and man on either side of Kenma, refusing to say their names. “As I understand it, both of you are proficient at self-defense?”

The girl nodded bashfully while the man bounced with an enthusiasm that was a bit much for the situation, “Oh man, yeah yeah yeah! How did you know?”

“Well, you’ve been announcing that you can fight for days. Making that assumption, you move like someone who knows how to leverage his own weight, which implies a focus on defense over offense. At any rate, both the police and some kind of national agents are on their way, and we need to leave. I am going to tell those two to stop fighting. A number of things could possibly happen as a result. A: They’ll listen, which is unlikely but most favorable. B: They’ll ignore me and continue to fight. Or, C: They’ll pretend to listen, and then resume fighting as soon as we’re nearly to the van. In the case of B or C, I need you to incapacitate them.”

“Uh, w-well, with someone that big, the only way I can is if I…”

“Feel free to absolutely obliterate his testicles,” Akaashi Keiji showed the slightest sign of anger for the first time. “He doesn’t need them to drive.”

As the two harmless members of the party flawlessly brought down the two largest, one with an apology and a sharp kick, the other with a wrench of an arm which looked like it should have pulled it out of the socket, Kenma realized he’d been half wrong in his observations.

Well, not completely half.

Akaashi Keiji would definitely kill him if he felt that it was necessary.

 

 

“Everyone, please brace yourselves,” Akaashi called into the back of the van as they spun out of the parking lot, police in hot pursuit. “I’d recommend the larger of you hold on to the smaller. I certainly hope those barrels were properly fastened before you two decided to act like children, otherwise you are going to be dissolved to death.”

The woman squeaked as Cat Eyes pulled her onto his lap with a quiet apology. The redhead, on the other hand, clung to Owl Eye like a thrilled koala.

“Is your seatbelt fastened?” Akaashi asked Kenma politely, green eyes flashing in the pursuing lights, illuminating a look that indicated he’d been waiting to do this for ages. 

“Uh. Yeah.”

Akaashi Keiji was not killing him.

“Excellent.”

At least not directly.

“Tho um,” part of one of Cat Eye’s front teeth had cracked off when he’d been punched in the jaw and the whistle of his resulting lisp was piercing, “juth what exactly ith gonna happen?” 

“I’m about to jump an irrigation channel and hopefully give us enough of a head start to get away. Or we’re going to get arrested. Or we’re going to crash and then get arrested.”

“In a full thized van???”

The woman was nervously muttering into Cat Eyes’ shirt and he patted her on the head a lot more gently than you’d expect. 

“Shit, I love you so much,” Owl Eye looked a bit nervous and really aroused, and it was disturbing for many reasons, not least of which was the torn up state of his face. “But are you sure you can…”

Over his shoulder Akaashi gave Owl Eye a slow glance with a tiny smirk, “I believe I heard you say that you weren’t the only one who could drive? I was assuming that you meant it.”

Kenma could feel the vibrations from Akaashi’s foot slamming the gas pedal all the way up to his knees.

“Hold on, please,” the man called politely as the van accelerated much more rapidly than vans should accelerate.

Kenma was too busy preparing for imminent death to turn around, but Owl Eye and the redhead were screaming with excitement while Cat Eyes was softly comforting the woman. The sirens were getting louder.

“I hope you’re having a good time, new guy!” the redhead called out to him. Kenma could tell he was smiling just by the sound of his voice. 

And then they were airborne.

 

_Karasuno Mansion, 11:30pm_

After his brush with death, Kenma had expected to end up almost anywhere but the foyer of one of the nicest houses he’d ever seen. A house worth more than most people made in their entire lives. But he was, standing awkwardly between Cat Eyes and Owl Eye in front of a poker table where three men were sitting. One of them was ranting, and had not stopped since they came in. He was tall, and looked and carried himself like he’d once been extremely pretty. But he wasn’t quite anymore, despite his expensive suit. Standing behind him was the dark, scowling man who’d led them up the stairs from the basement garage.

“Destroyed the undercarriage of the van…”

“Akaashi can fix that!” Owl Eye interjected.

“DO NOT interrupt me, Bokuto,” the ex-pretty man huffed, throwing his cards down and standing up with a slight favoring of left leg, “or I will be even angrier than I already am and then you will probably die. And then I will die, because Akaashi will butcher me. You’ll be responsible for a string of murders, one extremely grisly. Is that what you want?”

Bokuto shook his head.

“Got any queens?” the sleepy eyed man asked the guy with pink hair. They were the other two residents of the poker table and seemed very unconcerned about the goings on.

“Go fish, sucker.”

The ex-pretty man took a deep breath, ostensibly to bring in enough air to continue berating Kenma’s kidnappers. As soon as his back was turned, the two men still at the table started rifling through his cards.

“Drew the attention of the police, beat the _shit_ out of each other so that Suga has to stitch you up, _you,_ ” he pointed at Cat Eyes, “need emergency dentistry to get rid of that goddamn whistling, and now _kidnapping_??? Oh and not just any kidnapping, oh no, you had to go and kidnap someone wanted for _treason_.”

“You guys are idiots,” the dark scowler added.

“Thankth man.”

“Look, Oikawa-san,” Bokuto was slumped over, arms wrapped around his stomach like he was trying to make himself as small as possible. “I’m real sorry, and you can yell at me or fire me all you want tomorrow, but it’s real late, and I’m real upset and I think I have a concussion. If I don’t get some sleep tonight I might as well just drop out now because I’m gonna get in a bad way.”

“Fine,” the ex-pretty man, now Oikawa, huffed. “Go sleep.”

Bokuto gave him a weak lopsided grin.

“Tobio,” Oikawa addressed the dark scowler, “bunk with Yamaguchi tonight.”

The enormous man dove to hug Oikawa, but he sidestepped him, so Tobio got the hug instead. He didn’t seem to want it in the slightest. Bokuto danced out of the room, with Oikawa calling, “Make sure you have Suga look at your head!” after him.

That sort of generosity was not what he expected from the man in charge of what appeared to be an elaborate crime.

“Anyway, back to you two. I honestly don’t know what to do. Science-chan, you seem guilty of nothing worse than poor hair choices, but as you’ve probably guessed, this operation is not even remotely on the up and up. So I have no choice but to keep you here. Now, under what circumstances, it’s hard to say. I’ve never _kidnapped_ anyone before,” he glared at Cat Eyes.

“It wath Bokuto!” he protested.

“So what are we supposed to do with this stray kitten, Tetsu?”

Tetsu looked at him long and hard. Well, he assumed he did, but the moment he noticed he was being observed, Kenma ducked behind his hair.

“What do you know about that tholvent we took?” he finally asked.

“Uh,” Kenma didn’t know what he wanted to know exactly. “Some things. I manufactured it as part of my dissertation research.”

“Will you help me work with it to commit a robbery? You have a choithe, by the way.”

It was very difficult to have a conversation with a man with a face that swollen. Kenma didn’t know where to look.

“Um. Sure. I’d rather be here than jail, I guess.”

“Alright then, Oikawa, thith ith the deal: I’ll take full rethponthibility for thith guy ath long ath you treat him _normally_.”

He wasn’t easy to listen to either. The whistling of air on the sharp edge of the tooth was not a normal, cute lisp. It was _piercing_ and hurt Kenma’s ears.

“The only ones we’re treating abnormally from now on is the two idiots that made this happen in the first place,” Tobio crossed his arms.

“For once, Tobio-chan and I agree. You and Bokuto are on notice. Science-chan has given us no reason to distrust him, as of yet. Other than the obvious in that he can’t leave.”

“Then whaddya thay… _kitten_?” Tetsu leaned over to get a better look at his face.

Worse than the face, worse than his voice, worse than anything…  

“Ready to melt through thom thteel doorth? Oh, I’m Kuro Tethurou, by the way.”

…he had the kindest eyes Kenma had ever seen.

He took a deep breath and closed himself up.

“Kozume Kenma.”

He wasn’t about to get Stockholm Syndrome over a pair of kind eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kuroo needs to go to the fucking dentist immediately.
> 
> this is my wonderful beta's (lesetoilsfous's) favorite chapter. she is the best. i think this chapter was nothing but ellipses until she looked at it.


	10. Clumsy attempts at seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, it's been awhile. let me catch you up.
> 
> last time, kuroo led a little mini heist with bokuto, akaashi, hinata, and yachi to steal a solvent that would allow them to melt through the vault door. in the process, they discovered kenma!! annnd kidnapped him. bokuto and kuroo got in a physical fight, kuroo lost half of his front tooth, and now they're mad at each other. 
> 
> no one knows what to do with kenma, oikawa is pissed, and yeah. anything else and you might as well just reread the whole story.

**_"The safe is located on the tenth floor at the bottom of a ten floor maintenance shaft,” Oikawa sang. “We need to get the money out of that shaft, then we need to get it off of the roof and to a secure location. Apparently helicopters are too noisy, so now I have a brilliant aeronautical engineer and a genius mechanic instead. Gentlemen, do the impossible: build me a silent, invisible drone that can carry two metric tons.”_ **

_Job Prep: Day 2 Karasuno Mansion Garage, 7:30 am_

In the wake of his first fallout with his best friend, Koutarou had not slept.

He hadn’t cried either, something Akaashi could have coped with. Actually there was very little Akaashi couldn’t cope with when it came to Koutarou. His partner’s moods were carved into the very foundation of their relationship. The wide variety of ups and downs that Koutarou navigated daily was something that they had both adapted to. Otherwise things would have rattled apart a decade ago.

That hadn't happened. They were still very much together, something that would not change as long as Akaashi had breath left in his body. Though Koutarou’s emotional outbursts were at times almost unbearably annoying, they were also deeply familiar: the uneven ground of a beloved trail home.

And that was as poetic as Akaashi was ever going to wax over pouting and temper tantrums, not to mention the wilder, more medicated aspects of Koutarou’s personality.   

This wasn’t a temper tantrum though. Nor was it depression, dejection, sulking, pining, pouting, moping or any of the other flavors of miserable that Akaashi had come to both categorize and love. (As much as one could love such things.)

If he had to put a name to it, he’d say that Koutarou was devastated.

There was little he could do at this juncture. He was not Koutarou’s parent; that would be disgusting. The man had to solve his interpersonal problems on his own, even if said interpersonal problems were gouging a rift in Akaashi’s family. The realization that Kuroo was part of said family was less than twenty-four hours old, but it was something he couldn't deny now that the threat of losing him was a real and present danger.

Akaashi did not have family to spare.

Kuroo and Koutarou were both in the wrong anyway. They could figure out why themselves. The person most able to mediate had a staggering amount of work to do.

They were adults. They would figure things out.

There was simply no other option.

Despite a night of little sleep he had risen early, no thanks to conditioning that he’d been unable to reverse over the past decade. His traitorous brain would forever deny him the simple pleasure of sleeping until noon. Koutarou had thankfully been asleep when he woke, so he left him that way before sharing a quiet coffee with Oikawa while Suga made breakfast.

Very quiet. Oikawa’s meeting with his ex-lover had no doubt gone as well and as terribly as expected. Not for the first time, Akaashi felt a sense of bitter relief that he’d had no interpersonal conflicts to resolve upon his release. There were upsides to having no one to come home to, though it wasn’t a scenario he’d like to repeat.

But there was no need to worry. Koutarou and Kuroo would resolve this. Everything would go back to normal. He was not going to end up alone again.

Now, with his work bench covered in drafting paper and his tools set out, he was sipping his tea and trying to disconnect the chaos that was his personal life from the very real stress of the impossible job to which he’d been assigned. Koutarou was not wrong; he was very good at building things, but based on the books he’d read over the past few days, what Oikawa claimed Yamaguchi could design and what basic aerodynamics established as scientific possibility were two very different things.

That being said, in this situation the weight of Akaashi’s own ignorance was heavy. Yamaguchi was a PhD dropout, certainly. And dropping out of school was definitely embarrassing. There were, however, more embarrassing educational situations. Mortifying ones in fact.   

The ding of the elevator put an end to his contemplation, though the rattling of a cart that followed the opening door was unexpected.

Yamaguchi came first, coffee in hand. The floppy crown of his green streaked hair was in a high ponytail while the rest flipped out around his ears, letting his multiple piercings peek in and out as he moved. He was wearing a neon yellow t-shirt that simply said “Tacos” and clashing floral print jeans so ripped it wasn’t clear why he had put them on at all. His nails were painted bright orange.

Akaashi glanced down at his standard black jeans and black t-shirt and wondered if he was out of touch with youth culture.

Tsukishima followed, pushing the cart that Yamaguchi was pulling. He looked smug and fashionable, towering over the large angled screen in clothes that were unnecessarily sharp considering the hour, the occasion, and his company.

“H-hi Akaashi-san,” Yamaguchi gave a small wave and tripped over his own two feet, yanking the cart so hard that Tsukishima was jerked forward, putting a rather large dent in his dignity.

“Yamaguchi-san, Tsukishima-san,” Akaashi gave two small nods and received one in return. The bruise on Tsukishima’s jaw was beginning to fade, although Akaashi’s frustration with his own loss of composure and sense of situation was not.  Kuroo had insisted it was “all water under the bridge,” which left him wondering just what kind of intimate information his best friend had revealed in order to stimulate such forgetfulness.

“Oh!” Yamaguchi’s note of surprise was neither disappointed nor particularly happy. It was _confused_.

“You have paper! And pencils! And a compass! And a _protractor_! I’ve never designed with anything like that before, um,” he gestured at the large-screened computer behind him. “I’ve always used a pen display,” his laugh was self-deprecating and so nervous that it made Akaashi wince internally. “So Tsukki made this one for me when he found out we were doing this job. I don’t know how he did it, they cost a lot and–”

“Shut up, Yamaguchi.”

Akaashi blinked at the astonishing rudeness of shutting down a profoundly nervous man, but strangely enough the cruel words seemed to do the opposite of what he expected them to do. Yamaguchi took a deep breath and relaxed a bit. “Sorry, Tsukki,” he grinned sheepishly.

The interaction was filed away for future consideration. 

“I’m going back upstairs to address one of the thirty-five things necessary to make sure this job can even start to work,” Tsukishima droned. “Is it… _tradition_ to bring on someone for the single purpose of flipping over some laser beams, while leaving everything remotely technological to ‘the computer guy?’ I guess we’ll never know.”

“I’ll help you later, Tsukki!” Yamaguchi called to his retreating back.

“If you think you can build that whole thing in the next six hours, sure, I look forward to it.”

The elevator dinged once more, and Akaashi and Yamaguchi were left staring at each other.

And staring at each other.

And staring at each other.

With skill that came from painful experience Akaashi could go without talking for days, but Yamaguchi seemed to be more or less petrified, so it fell on him to fill the silence somehow.

“For the cars I’ve built or modified, I’ve only ever worked with a previous design,” he cleared his throat. “It would make sense for you to take the lead, Yamaguchi-san, particularly as I’ve never worked on any sort of aircraft.”

 That seemed to get his companion talking, “No, but Akaashi-san you do! Formula cars don’t fly, but the principles that keep them on the ground are the same! They generate so much downforce they could drive on the ceiling if they were going fast enough! And uh… managed to get on the ceiling in the first place… maybe in a tunnel…”

“No driver could handle that,” Akaashi responded automatically. It was much blunter than was entirely necessary, since Yamaguchi had no idea how many times Koutarou had tried to convince the team to let him do just that.

Green hair flipped as Yamaguchi shook his head, looking more than a little mortified. He pressed on with a certain sort of bravery, “Ah yeah, I guess not. But still. Akaashi-san I think you know more about this than you think you do. Especially when it comes to building a light, efficient engine, which is where I’m going to need the most help. I always partnered with a mechanical engineer in school. I can make something that can fly, but I’ve never built a propulsion system.”

“Then perhaps we should start with the obvious,” Akaashi was disinterested in wasting a second more of their time. “This is scientifically impossible.”

The blood drained from Yamaguchi’s face, “Um well, it’s only… _practically_ impossible since it’s never been done before. But, theoretically… I think I know how it might… work. But first we need to um…”

Akaashi sat down his tea and stood patiently, waiting for him to continue.

Yamaguchi approached the bench, hands scrabbling for a pencil, when he hit the cup with the edge of his hand. Akaashi saw it tip in slow motion, dark liquid splashing against white china, then splattering across the pure white expanse of drafting paper, sliding like an avalanche until it stopped, soaking into his journal.

“Oh my god!” Yamaguchi yelped, reaching out for the book, but Akaashi’s hands were there first, snapping it open and flapping it against his own arm like someone trying to do the Heimlich maneuver on a choking infant. Tea flicked through the air from the leather cover, but not the already soaked pages.

Akaashi scanned the book, two years of… work he’d done.

Entire sections were blurred beyond comprehension.

“I’ve uh… gotta go to the bathroom,” Yamaguchi gulped.

He was in such a hurry he took the stairs. 

 

_Kuroo’s recently evacuated room, 8 am_

 

“I’m so sorry for last night’s accommodation, but from now on this is your room Kozume-san,” Suga said happily. He waved his hand, indicating all the different amenities: mainly two beds, a shower, and a chair. The other bed had been hastily made, as its inhabitant, Kuro, had left the night before, deciding to bunk up with Oikawa so their hostage had his own space. The key to the door was in Kageyama’s possession, though Suga probably had one himself.

Anything was better than sleeping on the floor of the penthouse closet.

“We want you to have as much privacy as you need. There’s little reason we should be enemies and believe me, abduction was the last thing on any of our minds.”

“I understand why this happened,” Kenma said to the ground. He had no interest in making Suga angry. He seemed to be the sort who knew where the bodies were buried, even if someone else had put them there.

“Logical, perhaps,” Suga soothed, “but not what any of us wanted, particularly Kuroo.”

Kuroo? That was how his name was said? Either way, Kenma had made an agreement with him. To use the solvent to melt through a door. Which he could easily do, but it was completely stupid. Why on earth would anyone trust someone they’d _kidnapped_? But as Kuro had led him upstairs to the penthouse last night, Kenma found that his… guard… was more excited about solving the problem that the break-in presented than he was about the actual score.

He needed to think more about that later.

“Now,” Suga sat on the bed and looked at him pointedly. “I’m a doctor. I can get any sort of prescriptions without much trouble. Is there anything that you might need for the next three weeks? Perhaps longer, Oikawa’s not revealed his long term plans to me. Allergy medicine? Psychiatric drugs? Blood pressure medication?”

Kenma didn’t need any of that.

“Hormones?”

It was actually getting kind of offensive, the number of people who assumed he was trans simply because he was small and… delicate? If you could call it that. But Suga at least understood Kenma’s annoyance on behalf of himself and the entire transgender community and let the issue drop. 

“If anyone here hurts you in any way, I can promise you that they will be dealt with severely by both Kuroo and Kageyama. I know Kageyama seems menacing, but he will take his job to guard and protect you completely seriously.”

Kenma nodded, not certain of what else to say. This debriefing of his kidnapping was by far the strangest experience of his life.

“And if either of them goes against their own best natures and tries to hurt you, I need you to tell me so that I can kill them.”

With a gentle smile, Suga reached to slide the door shut, stopping at the last minute to say once again, “Please, if you do need anything do not hesitate to let me know. It will be between us, I absolutely promise. I’ve sat some of Hinata’s clothes on the bed for you. We’ll be bringing you some of your own this afternoon.”

And the door shut. Kenma was alone.

This prison was much superior to his previous closet. He could charge his Vita and DS, though his laptop and phone had been taken away. No one seemed to realize that if he could get on some kind of wifi network with either device, he could figure out how to contact someone useful. Well, useful within reason.

But as of now, he couldn’t get on the wifi. He suspected that if he tried, the tall blonde who had been surrounded by computers might notice.

 

_The basement, 9am_

 

“I’m so sorry, Akaashi-san,” Yamaguchi had brought him more tea, a new notebook, and some of the breakfast pastries that Suga had made. Not a single one of these things was even remotely close to what Akaashi wanted. What he wanted was to be left alone and after some time to find Koutarou and make certain he was in acceptable condition.

But he couldn’t. Instead he had this... situation to deal with.

“Water under the bridge,” Akaashi said, trying to be delicate and coming across as clichéd. “Now, perhaps we can begin?”

“Yeah,” Yamaguchi nodded, looking relieved, “sorry about the false starts. I uh… always get kinda nervous working with new people.”

As though that were necessary to explain.

Akaashi chided himself for such harshness. He knew how to deal with someone difficult. And Yamaguchi was not even such a person. He was clearly bright with a strong idealistic center. The only issue was low self-esteem, hardly an uncommon issue. There was no question that he was capable.

So what was the problem?

“Okay, Akaashi-san, what should we do?”

Akaashi had never been put in charge before. He was always in charge, obviously, but he’d never been the one who was getting the credit, calling the shots which then needed to be achieved or undercut. Always the executor, never the executive.  Yamaguchi was the one who had the knowledge. He was the one who needed to take the lead, to make the moves and make mistakes. Akaashi wasn’t exactly certain where to push to get him started, but that didn’t matter so much.

Over the past ten years, Akaashi had made certain that Bokuto got what he wanted, even when it meant surreptitiously guiding his decisions from behind the scenes.

Oikawa would likely call that manipulation. Really, it was love.

There was only one thing for the current problem.

Akaashi Keiji was going to pull on every ounce of compassion he had and make meek little Yamaguchi Tadashi into a leader.

It wasn’t like it would be the first time he’d made someone into a captain.

Issue number one: no self-confidence.

 

_Kenma’s room: 11:30 am_

 

“Kozume-san!” Kenma could just hear the call and knock on the door over the sound of the hairdryer. “Are you okay? I brought breakfast! Even though it’s almost lunch…"

Sleepily pulling his shirt over his head, Kenma felt no need to immediately answer. He was helping the people who had kidnapped him but he’d do it in his own time.

This was all such a complete hassle, and he was tired.  

He wondered what his parents were thinking at this very moment. If they’d been questioned by police abroad or if they had no idea, thinking he’d just fallen out of contact as he tended to do. They’d never assume the worst about him, but still, he didn’t want to make them worry. He didn’t want to draw any attention to them at all, let alone himself.

“Kozume-kuuuuun!” Hinata called again, with an increasing degree of familiarity that said a lot about what kind of person he was. "This tray is really heavy! Sorry, I know you're working with Kuroo, but he's getting his tooth fixed. I hope he gets a gold one, that would be so cool! But yeah I said I’d help out so you’re with me for a while!" 

"Just a minute," he finally called, wringing out his still-dripping hair in the sink. He hadn’t felt this sort of anxiety in ages: his life had normalized itself after high school. College had required a lot less interaction with strangers. He could work at a different pace, whenever and wherever he wanted. Grad school had been set up in a similar fashion, but even more so, since it was immediately apparent that he could not and should not teach. Research was quiet and solitary and he appreciated it.

“Hello,” he said, pulling open the door at a speed Hinata didn’t expect. He nearly dropped the tray he was carrying. Miso spilled from the side of the bowl and gently splashed around like a pond reflecting sunlight.

“Gwah!! You’re really quiet!” He yelled.

 

_The basement, 11:30 am_

 

It was important to establish a firm foundation. Encouragement. With the exception of Koutarou, Yamaguchi seemed one of the more fragile people that Akaashi had ever come into contact with. It was a sharp contrast to his frigid, glass-jawed almost-lover. He expected that the two of them would take their relationship to the next level by the conclusion of the job, but since he didn’t know them that well, it wasn’t a certainty. Either way, Tsukishima seemed to provide no direct encouragement whatsoever in Yamaguchi’s life, so Akaashi decided that he would fill that void.

As it turned out, he was not particularly skilled at giving out meaningless encouragement without desperate prompting.

“So I uh… well… hm…” Yamaguchi said essentially nothing for the fifth time. He was standing in front of the pen display, pulling up shapes, turning them in every direction, and then throwing them away. Akaashi stood, impassively, trying not to seem imposing.

He realized there was no way not to do that.

“You are… very adept at that program, Yamaguichi-san,” he announced much more awkwardly than he intended to.

Yamaguchi turned and the bewildered look on his face was not ideal.

“I’m actually not really sure how it works,” he admitted, the back of his neck turning dark red. “They updated the program a lot since the last time.”

Akaashi swallowed, “I feel certain you’ll adapt quickly. You are the expert.”

Yamaguchi made a delicate noise with his mouth.

“Stop it.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re trying to butter me up,” he turned his body completely around and looked up at Akaashi with sheer, terrified guts. “You think that I’m easy to handle, but I’m not. I know you’re trying to give me confidence so I’ll do what you want, but I don’t think you quite understand how much I hate myself.”

Akaashi had no idea how much, unsurprisingly. “I apologize, Yamaguchi-san.”

“Look,” Yamaguchi said to the ground, although his teeth were gritted, “I pretty much think I’m terrible all the time, every day, so when somebody tells me something nice? I don’t believe them. And with Tsukki, there’s like, well, you know he’s not the kindest person ever.”

That was an understatement.

“But with him I always know what he means. So the bar’s set pretty high. Too high for you.”

He looked up and made trembling eye contact.

“My life is sad, I guess, but since it is,” he cracked a little smile, “there’s nothing you can hold over my head. The things I want nobody but me can give so just… don’t try to manipulate me okay? I can see right through it. I mean, Suga keeps trying, almost like he’s testing me, but I can’t tell him he’s embarrassing himself because he seems nice and this is his house…”

“I should have shown you more respect, Yamaguchi-san,” Akaashi said sincerely. Which sounded no different than the way he said anything else.

“Look I just need some… I can’t… yeah, I just gotta go. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Once again, Yamaguchi ran up the stairs, leaving Akaashi alone with his thoughts. He sat in a chair and stared blankly at the wall. 

Issue two: bafflingly perceptive.

 

Koutarou brought him lunch. His hair was down, which Akaashi always liked, but it wasn’t the happy sort of just-showered-after-sex, we’re-on-vacation-at-the-beach kind of down. His hair was down the way it was when he couldn’t be bothered to spike it, generally a sign of a rapidly deepening depression.

For his part, Koutarou was not used to seeing Akaashi stare at a wall, so they were both at something of an impasse.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked softly, resting his hand on his shoulder. His voice didn’t sound right and Akaashi couldn’t fix it. He was rather useless at the moment.

Despite his usability, Koutarou took his hand and led him into the elevator, up five stories until they were on the roof of the penthouse. It was a grassy spot that let them see the top of the expensive homes all around them and the skyscrapers far away. There was already a blanket (taken from Bokuto’s bed) on the grass. They settled there, surrounded by Suga’s rather interesting exploration of Indian cuisine.

“You’re not eatin’,” Koutarou looked sadder than he had in years. “Look, Keiji, I know I messed stuff up but I can’t say sorry, I won’t. Because I’d do it all over again, you know I would.”

Akaashi slid across the comforter to gently run his calloused fingers over the soft skin of Koutarou’s hand. “I know. The situation with Kuroo distresses me, but the blame rests on both of you. I have faith that you’ll resolve things. I’m frustrated, but I’m not angry. And currently I’m much more disturbed about something else. Also, my love, please make sure to take your klonopin if you’re feeling upset.”

Koutarou relaxed into a wobbly, weepy smile, an overfilled glass on the verge of spilling. He’d been so afraid, a fear Akaashi could soothe with his body but not with his words. At least not right now when his emotional reserves were so drained. His notebook was destroyed, so he couldn’t even look up historical examples of the way he currently felt.

“Is it the nervous kid?”

“Yamaguchi, yes. His anxiety has rendered him… incompetent, and I am unused to–”

“Working with someone who isn’t full of himself?” Bokuto reached out for his shoulder and pulled him close. He was grinning just a little on top of the self-deprecation. Undeniable signs of extreme pain.

“Indeed.”

Bokuto leaned them both back and used his other hand to play with Akaashi’s curls.

“Welllll, you didn’t just learn to work with me, beautiful. You learned to work with everybody in the garage, to make ‘em all trust you. We’re all different. Komi does whatever you tell him, Konoha lies, I think Meda wants to kill a man someday. And each one would follow you to hell and back. Not to mention the rest of the hashiriya, and they used to wanna kill us. I know I’m the boss, and I’ll get us through at the end of the day, but you’re the one they trust. The one I trust, Keiji.”

“You know, you’re much smarter than you look, my love.”

“Of course I am… _hey_!”

 

_The kitchen, 1pm_

 

“Suga’s a pretty good cook eh?” Hinata said with his mouth full. Even when he was eating he couldn’t stop talking. Normally Kenma would have found his presence completely exhausting, but there was something… exciting, about his escort. Not to mention the fact that he gave far too much information out when he talked. Which was constantly. Kenma needed that information to understand where he was and exactly why he was there so that he could leave as soon as possible.

But what to do after that, exactly?

He no longer had a job or the future he’d anticipated. He didn’t even have an identity he could use without being arrested. If the government was particularly interested in ruining his life, they could track him using his cell phone, which had been taken away and hopefully put in a lead sleeve of some sort. At least some of these people were professionals, so he didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, but he was still stuck between the government and what seemed like a terribly organized caper run by complete weirdos.

For instance, his current escort and guard.

Hinata wanted to be his friend. He wanted to learn everything about Kenma while revealing the deepest darkest parts of his own past. And he wanted to do both things in the same breath. Kenma already knew enough about the excitable redhead to completely destroy his life if he wanted to, but he wasn’t really in the business of destroying anyone’s life but his own.

Behind them, Kageyama followed. Hinata grumbled about him enough to make it obvious that they had a romantic history, which was odd. He also belittled him as though someone so imposing wasn’t a threat, which Kenma found absolutely impossible to believe. The man’s dark presence and incessant muttering made Kenma want to dig a hole through the ceramic tile of the dining area with his fingernails.

“You need to eat more!” Hinata jostled his arm a little. “Haven’t you ever had a samosa before? They’re so good!”

“They’re a bit large,” Kenma muttered, taking a small bite of the flaky crust. It was better than he expected. Hinata immediately picked up on his smile.

“I told you! I told you, Kenma, Suga is a really good cook!” Moving to a given name basis had been seamless, as soon as Kenma told him it was what he preferred to be called.

“Maybe.”

“Well, what do you wanna see before Kuroo gets back? So far you’ve seen the baths, though you don’t gotta use em cause there’s a shower in your room. Oh, and I’d take you to the basement but you’re gonna see that with Kuroo anyway, so maybe you want to see the roof?”

“I’ve never been in a house this big.”

“OH! So I could give you a full tour!”

“That would be nice, Shouyou.”

“It makes me feel really happy when you call me Shouyou, you know? Nobody really does, well, somebody used _to_. Oh, and Yachi does, so yeah here too but I like that you do it.”

It was a shame that Shouyou was still in love with his ex, because he was the kind of person almost anybody could fall for.

They made it to the roof, only to discover that it was already occupied by a pleasant picnic, complete with Akaashi Keiji’s healthy groans as Bokuto’s head bobbed between his legs.

They were very caught up in having sex and wouldn’t have noticed, but Shouyou’s strange guttural yelp gave them away. Furious eyes flicked open, wide and intensely green in the sun.

As Shouyou mashed the elevator’s close door button again and again, Kenma felt pretty certain that if he died in the course of this job, Akaashi Keiji would be his cause of death.

 

_Tsukishima’s makeshift base of operations, 2pm_

 

Tadashi had demanded the rest of the day to figure things out. He’d tried to sound authoritative but in reality he couldn’t have come across as any more pathetic. He thought about asking Tsukki about the situation, but Tsukki had been spending the entire day trying to wrangle Tanaka, Noya, and Asahi as they “helped” him set up the various computer systems he needed. Asahi did his best to hold heavy things. Noya and Tanaka “tested out” the audio equipment with the excitement of the little kids that Tadashi had worked with in Shimada-san’s store. The only really useful person was Yachi, who cleared out the endless boxes, plastic, and foam so that they weren’t in the way. He helped her for a little bit and her smile was worth the effort.

Suga leaned against on the back of a couch and giggled at them whenever he wasn’t taking care of their dinner. Despite the entertaining distraction, he caught Tadashi by the sleeve on his way to the elevator, knowing somehow that he was heading to the roof.

“Bokuto and Akaashi went up there for lunch. They haven’t come down since and if Hinata’s face a few minutes ago was any indication, you don’t want to go up there. Unless you want the tension between you and Akaashi to get worse. Or have a threesome.”

Tadashi choked on nothing and Suga pulled him into the kitchen, sitting him down on a stool at the breakfast bar while he poured him a glass of water.

“Things are going pretty terribly, aren’t they?” he asked as Tadashi swallowed too aggressively and choked all over again, this time spitting water all over the place.

“Has Akaashi figured out his mind games won’t work on you?” Suga handed him a napkin and waited patiently while Tadashi cleaned himself up.

He nodded. “Why have you been trying to… all this time…?” he croaked out.

Suga shrugged, “I like to push myself. Need to stay one step ahead of Daichi, you know.”

“Oh. Um.”

“Anyway, out of anyone, I thought that maybe Akaashi would be able to get to you. I mean, the man doesn’t just run a gang, he runs a network of them.” 

“Get to me?”

“Convince you do what he wants with realizing he’s done anything.” Suga leaned forward on the counter. “You’re scared of him, right?”

Tadashi nodded, feeling equally scared of Suga at that moment.

“I am too,” he shrugged. “Out of everyone on this job, he’s probably the most dangerous. He has the most resources, a ruthless personality, a brilliant mind, and a single-minded goal. Out of his two vulnerabilities, one could rip a car in half with his bare hands, and the other could talk himself out of a holding cell.”

It really wasn’t clear how this was supposed to be helping.

“But do you know what he doesn’t have, Yamaguchi?”

The ability to smile was a potential answer, but Tadashi kept it to himself.

“A high school education.”

That… seemed impossible.

“There are a lot of ways to be scary, Yamaguchi. Don’t discredit yourself.”

 

_A quiet hallway, 6pm_

 

The house had a lot of tiny spaces where Kenma could wedge himself. Unfortunately no matter where he went, Kageyama followed. Looming. The two of them had been alone since Shouyou had gone off to “practice being a girl with Tanaka.” Kenma assumed that meant that the two of them were going to serve as some kind of distraction during the job, but the concept was still ridiculous. He chuckled very softly over his DS only to feel Kageyama’s already severe gaze increase in its intensity. 

As long as things were like this, he was never getting out.

“Have I ever told you that you look really hot lurking in corners like a creep, Kags? Because oh man, this look is really doing it for me right now.”

Instead of staring at Kenma, Kageyama snapped his gaze to the person coming down the hall.

“I’m supervising the person you kidnapped,” he growled back.

Kuroo flipped on the light, “Yeah, but do you gotta do it in the dark?” He smiled wide, and the sudden glare caught on the shiny new gold crown on his tooth.

Ridiculous.

“Your mouth is a liability,” Kageyama grunted.

Kuroo laughed, “First time I’ve ever heard that.”

No it wasn’t. These clumsy attempts at seduction were so bad they had to be some kind of joke.

“Anyway, Oikawa wants to talk to you. Apparently you’ve got some planning to do in terms of roofing? I’ll keep an eye on the kitten.”

“He does not want you to call him that,” Kageyama was not wrong, but he was heading down the hall anyway, thrilled to be off duty.

Kuro’s approach to guard duty was a lot more hands-on.

“So, Kozume-san, have you had a good day?” He said, crouching in front of him.

Kenma longed for Kageyama’s presence the instant it was gone.

“Fine,” he shrugged, focusing on his Pokémon inventory.

“Just fine? Shorty tells me you guys had quite a show,” he leaned against the windowsill where Kenma was sitting.

“Between your best friends,” Kenma reorganized his team then went back to the actual game.

His words had the intended effect, although he felt a worse about it than he had expected to.

“Ah, yeah, they tend to uh, kinda…” Kuro stood up and dusted off his pants awkwardly, “anyway, are you hungry? Or has Kageyama been holding you hostage all this time?”

“I’m not,” he said into his game.

“Actually, I think you are,” Kuro smirked. His golden crown looked so ridiculous Kenma smiled a tiny bit. But at him, not with him

He immediately regretted it.

“See? You’re smiling! You want to eat, you’re just shy.”

“No I’m not,” Kenma hunkered down into the window sill.

“Yes you are,” Kuroo crouched down so they were eye to eye.

“No I’m not,” Kenma’s fingers flew across the buttons on his DS, pretending he was doing something other than mindlessly scrolling through menus.

“Yes you are,” Kuroo picked him up and swung him over his shoulder. He was a lot stronger than he looked. “Now, look. Your agency is really important to me, Kozume-san. But so is your health. And if I know Shorty, he’s fed you nothing but cinnamon rolls all day.”

“Apple fritters,” Kenma muttered. “They had fruit in them.”

Kuroo threw back his head and laughed.

It was the most grating sound that Kenma had ever heard. 

                                                                                                                                                       

_Job Prep: Day 3, Akaashi and Yamaguchi’s room: 3am_

 

 It was the first night they’d really slept together. Well, slept together as in slept in the same room. Tadashi tended to develop small crushes on nearly everyone, but Akaashi was more the stuff of a nightmarish sex dream where he was torn to bits at the end by enormous talons.

Not crush material.

The tension between them, though not at all sexual, was thick enough to cut with a knife. Sleeping in a room with someone who you needed to hash things out with proved difficult: it was now very clear to Tadashi why one half of a quarrelling couple ended up on the couch. He ran through all the things he might say but none of them made any sense at all. His babbling went on even inside his own head. He took a deep breath, preparing to announce that maybe they should talk, but Akaashi spoke first.

“Yamaguchi-san, this task is urgent yet your anxiety is keeping us from functioning as we might.” Ruthless, but not cruel. Akaashi was doing what Tadashi had asked, at least. “When we began, I was honest about the scope of our task, which upset you. I since attempted to rectify the situation by encouraging you, which made things worse. I have never before been in the position where I’ve had to ask such a thing, but what can I do to make this easier for you?”

He had no idea. The fear of Akaashi was barely a fear of Akaashi at all. It was a fear of everyone on this job. He, with no criminal experience, was going to let them down at _the_ vital moment. Anyone else could fail at their tasks and the job might still work out, but not him.

Not him.

The expectations were crushing. It’d be better, easier, if they didn’t believe he could do it. Then he could just prove them wrong. But like this…

“I am growing tired of you behaving as though you are the only person building this device,” Akaashi continued. “If there are concerns, they should be shared. If you are stuck, I can perhaps help motivate you. But as it stands, I am completely ignorant. I cannot do a thing for you unless you are willing to step up and take responsibility for your own emotions, knowledge, and skills.”

The silence was heavier than before, pressing on his chest. Akaashi rolled out of his bed and walked softly into the bathroom.

“I know,” Tadashi told his empty bed.

 

_Job Prep: Day 3 Breakfast, 7:00 am_

  

Kuro was strange. During their extremely early breakfast Kenma blearily watched his kidnapper cut his egg into a very specific pattern and then eat each piece in a precise order. At the end of the process he gave a tiny little cheer, muttering, “Citric acid, that’s a new one,” to himself. It was not clear what he’d been doing. Maybe he was trying to make a molecule egg? Although if Kenma, a chemist, had no real idea, it was likely nothing but nonsense. After his bizarre personal achievement Kuro lectured Kenma for eating nothing but an apple muffin, insisting that they weren’t going to do anything until he had some protein.

Kenma had some good news: he had no interest in doing anything.

Unfortunately, Kuro was also very tall and Kenma could not get his Vita back when it was taken away, so Kenma picked at some fish until it was deemed good enough. They took the steps down to the basement because Kuro felt it was better for their hearts, but his robust attitude melted away just in front of the door. He peeked through the shatter-proof glass, no doubt looking for Bokuto, then heaved a sigh of relief.

Kenma pulled out his DS during the process, and as soon as his game started, Kuro dragged him by the sleeve into the space and led him across the room.

He’d been too busy looking at his feet the last time he’d been there to really notice much of anything. But now that he was allowed to look, he suddenly felt that maybe, just maybe these people had some sense of what they were doing. The far wall had workshop bench after workshop bench. On one Akaashi Keiji was rapidly writing something on its papered surface, while the green haired boy whose name he’d not yet heard was squinting at an angled pen display over a pair of ridiculous blue glasses. They weren’t talking but there seemed to be an agreed upon tension between them.

The next table over was meticulously set up: test tubes, flasks, lab glasswear of all types organized by shape and size and covered to keep them sterile. Two hazmat suits were hanging on the wall, the sort which Kenma was pleased to note would repel the solvent. The liquid itself was sitting peacefully in two barrels against the wall. But there were no substances other than that, and the standard eyewash that would absolutely do no good.

Kenma turned now that they were stopped. He was used to keeping his hair around his eyes so that no one really knew where or what he was looking at, but he had to tip his head at quite an angle to take in just what was at the far wall. 

Directly before him was a setup of what could only be small laser projectors. They were scattered along an invisible corridor, and turned at various different angles. On each side were tall poles that didn’t really go anywhere but the ceiling.

At an angle was the wide metal rounded enclosure of a vault. The round door was open. It was six inches thick.

Six inches in theory was very different to six inches in practice. He’d seen what the solvent he’d manufactured could do. But imagining someone trying to pour this dangerous solvent at a ninety-degree angle under a very, very tight time frame was almost, well, interesting. Knowing that this solvent would dissolve literally anything other than a very specific type of plastic made it kind of… exciting, rather than exhausting. It was that much of a challenge.

The final boss.

Not that it mattered, because he already knew how he was getting out. Kuro was too nice, Kageyama was too infatuated, Suga was too nosy, and Akaashi Keiji was distracted beyond belief.

Kenma was going to walk right out the front door.

 

 

_Karasuno Mansion Garage, noon_

 

“Is the safe working okay, Yachi-san?”

The small woman popped her head out of the vault and smiled at him, “Please, call me Hitoka, or Yacchan. Yachi-san is my wife.” She giggled and he wished just a little that she didn’t have a wife.

“O-oh. Well, Tadashi then.”

“It’s working, in that I can’t get into it yet. Safes have sort of a, personality. Like, I can hear them, but I have to decide just when I need to stop. Right before the click, after the click? During the click?”

“That’s really stressful,” he laughed awkwardly, all the more so because Akaashi was standing behind him. 

Yachi giggled nervously, “I mean, yeah, basically if I get down there and can’t open this safe, every single thing that everyone’s done will be for no reason!”

“I know!” His voice was just as strained, but it almost felt good to talk to someone who understood and seemed to be just as anxious as he was. “If I can’t design this drone, it doesn’t matter if you open it five minutes faster than expected, you’re just stuck down there.”

“Perhaps,” Akaashi interjected, “we should focus on the task at hand, as opposed to any number of potential futures.”

“But what if–?”

“No.”

“Oh but we might–”

“Or perhaps Bokuto-san and I might decide to cannibalize everyone and dress in your skins. There are many possibilities. Yachi-san, I believe Tsukishima-san might need your help upstairs.”

Tadashi didn’t know if that had been a joke or not, but he laughed in a shrill sort of terrified way. Yachi took a lot longer to respond, her face unhealthily white when she finally did.

“Oh… yeah! I’ve been down here a long time,” she said while she scurried away.

The drawn out silences spent in Akaashi’s company were becoming familiar. Tsukki was quiet. Granted, he talked quite a bit to Tadashi but he was quiet a lot of the time. Akaashi’s quiet wasn’t familiar in the slightest, but it was starting to be just a little bit less terrifying.

“Would you like to look?” he said unexpectedly.

“Look?” After his previous statement, Tadashi was not really wanting to do much of anything with Akaashi.

“At the safe. I’ve never seen one of this size before. We only steal cars.”

“Oh, sure, I guess. Might as well!” He stepped through the round door, thrilled to do something that Akaashi openly wanted for a change. Quiet steps followed, and Akaashi’s long fingers circled the round curve of the entrance. In the low light he looked like that woman from the Lord of the Rings movie, perilous and deadly? Something like that.

He turned his head and smiled at Tadashi. Only a half-smile, but it set off the most complicated series of emotions a facial expression had ever evoked in Tadashi’s life.

“This must have cost ten million yen,” he caressed the door of the safe itself. “To have that kind of dispensable income…”

Tadashi wasn’t quite so impressed, but he was a little nervous, so he leaned against the wall and watched Akaashi bond with the safe. He’d just crossed his arms when he heard a click.

And the vault door slammed shut.

 

_Ten minutes later…_

 

“ **GET THEM OUT** ,” Oikawa roared.

Kenma would have expected Bokuto to be the one losing his mind, but he wasn’t. He was sitting next to Yachi and Tsukishima, urgently talking through the process of breaking the external lock. The only way to do so was by lifting the entire side of the vault itself then wedging something underneath it, so Tsukishima could disengage a circuit. They didn’t have a forklift, and Bokuto and Asahi were the only people strong enough to wedge it open. The only evidence of Bokuto’s stress that Kenma could recognize was the shake in his hands and the veins standing out in his forehead.

“How much solvent will it take to open the door?” Kuro asked lowly, glancing at the barrel behind them, and then at Bokuto over and over again.

“They’ll probably suffocate if we do,” he looked down at their supplies. “And we haven’t made the inhibitor to stop the process. I don’t know where they’re standing. They could be… uh… melted, even if they did have enough air to survive after the reaction.”

“Kaashi’s really claustrophobic.”

So was Oikawa, by the looks of things.

 

“The issue with the drone,” Akaashi gasped, “is torque.”

Tadashi had never seen anything like it in his life. Well, he didn’t actually see anything. He just heard. The instant the vault closed, the light had gone out. Thirty seconds later, Akaashi had started muttering, touching every last inch of the vault and safe, looking for an escape route. Then he’d slid to the ground, making tiny terrified sounds that grew quieter and quieter as the most terrifying man in the world teetered on the edge of a panic attack.

Tadashi did not know much about panic attacks other than the rapid breathing, but he did know the air supply in the vault had to be limited, and a panic attack was bound to use more oxygen than they could spare. He thought about the way Akaashi talked to people when he was comfortable with them. He thought about what he did to get what he wanted.

“Akaashi-san, tell me what you think the problem with our design is. We need to plan, and now is a good time.”

Torque was a really good answer.

“And silence,” Tadashi tried to continue as though they were sitting at a table over coffee, “we could easily build something strong enough, but it would be too loud without an electric engine.”

“And it cannot be loud, because it would draw attention,” Akaashi was still breathing faster and faster and Tadashi had no idea what to do. Surprisingly, he felt no panic himself: it was almost like Akaashi was sucking up all the panic available.

Also all the oxygen.

“Akaashi-san, would you like to be touched?”

“No, please,” he answered softly.

“They’re going to come and get us, I promise,” Tadashi was gentle, trying to put a hug into his words, “Tsukki will figure out the door, or Bokuto-san will knock it down. We just have to hold on until then.”

He could feel Akaashi shaking, and his quick breathing turned into hyperventilation. He could pass out, have a seizure, any number of things Tadashi could not deal with.

 _There are lots of ways to be scary._  

“Akaashi-san, do you know how scared I am of you?”

“No,” he pulled a heaving gasp of air out of the small pants. “I work to be intimidating,” another gasp, “but I’ve never been certain what is successful.”

“I’ll give you a list, okay. But you have to take a deep breath for every number. Okay? That’s the deal.”

Akaashi took some time to consider, thoughtful even in the middle of a breakdown.

“Y-yes.”

There was no point in thinking about it. Tadashi had to just dive in. “Number one… you’ve got to breathe now, then let out the air while I tell you the rest, okay?”

He could hear Akaashi pull in as much air as possible.

“You’re so pretty it’s like, nothing could upset you, ever.” He needed to keep going so Akaashi didn’t start hyperventilating again. Talking wasted air, but not nearly as much as the rapid breathing did.

“Number two…”

 

“You ready to do this, big guy?” Bokuto didn’t seem like the kind of person who could sound grim, but he did. Next to him, Asahi looked truly terrifying, his tattoos rippling across the muscles of his arms. They shoved the wedges under the edge of the vault and pushed with all their might.

Next to him, Kenma felt Kuro twitch.

“I’m sure he wants you there,” he said, without much emotion.

“He’s doing just fine without me,” Kuro’s teeth were gritted.

“Really?”

“It’s a two-man job,” Kuro turned his head. “Asahi’s stronger than me anyway.”

 

“Number five,” this breath came much easier. “You’ve got huge dudes as bodyguards.”

“I… think we can stop,” the hyperventilation had slowed to exhausted, ragged breaths. “I’d like to leave some of my horrors to mystery.” 

They were quiet for a moment. Despite the fact that they weren’t touching, Tadashi could still feel Akaashi shaking.

“So, do you like any kind of stories? I could tell you a story. Or we could talk about the job again.”

There was a long pause. Tadashi figured this whole ordeal had to be beyond humiliating. He was pretty used to being embarrassed. Akaashi probably wasn’t.

“I… I’ve always enjoyed stories of bravery.”

“So, like, myths?”

“Very much, but tell me about you. I suspect you’ve done something brave at least once in your life.”

Tadashi laughed, sad and quiet, trying to conserve the little air they had.

“Uh… well… once upon a time, you know, there was this kid. His grandparents lived in America, and he saw them two times before they died. Just twice. So he had big dreams of making things fly without a lot of energy, you know, to make it easier for people to visit their families and such. College wasn’t great, but he worked really hard and made it into grad school. It wasn’t easy for him, he wasn’t much of a genius…”

Akaashi’s breath had slowed down almost too much. Tadashi could feel the pressure in his sinuses. The steady drop in oxygen.

“…but he put in a lot of work. He ended up doing research on UAVs – that’s what we’re working on now. But… it turned out there wasn’t much anyone wanted to do with them other than kill people. So, this idiot, he really didn’t want to hurt people so he, uh, destroyed his research. It was government-funded so they threw him out of school immediately. He nearly went to jail. But he didn’t. Just… started working at an electronic store, building lightweight little drones kinda wondering, what life was–”

“Weight,” Akaashi interrupted him, voice much more expressive than normal. “Also, you are incredibly brave, more than I gave you credit for. But it’s weight, Tadashi, its _weight_.”

“Huh?”

“That’s the only variable we can manipulate!” Akaashi was shouting from where he had to be lying on the ground. The air was so thin Tadashi felt dizzy. “The weight of the frame of the drone. The weight of the engine! If we make it light and strong, torque won’t be an issue!”

Akaashi started to giggle.

Suffocation was not the way Tadashi wanted to die, but he found that he didn’t actually mind that much. It was kind of like being sleepy and drunk. And they were friends now, at least. Given names, and Akaashi was laughing and calling him brave. Maybe he was brave, a little? If Akaashi of all people was saying it.

“Well,” he chuckled, “there’s always carbon fiber, which would be perfect, but that shit is really expensive Keiji. And you’d need like thirty 3D printers and over a week to make what we’d need. It’d cost so much money.”

Akaashi’s giggles turned into shrill cackling.

“’Dashi, I think you’ve, um,” he lost himself in terrible screeching laughter, “f-forgotten that we’re all fucking _thieves._ ”

 

When the door swung open, Bokuto’s huge eyes glowing like searchlights, they were lying on top of each other, half-suffocated and laughing in tiny hysterical pants.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rooftop blowjobs, true romance
> 
> here’s an [amazing yams](http://pesky33.tumblr.com/post/157751919208/if-you-havent-already-you-should-read-sayuri-by) from pesky! 
> 
> thanks to my sweet beta, lesetoilesfous for betaing and ideas. also thanks to my boyfriend, who helped me figure out how to build a fucking drone that can carry two metric tons, which accounted for 30% of the delay on this chapter. it's really funny, actually, how many heists just ignore the fact that money is not weightless. 
> 
> and thanks to all of you for your patience. this was the hardest chapter to write, i think i'll be back on some sort of more frequent schedule from now on.


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